


De Ses Cendres

by AmphigoricSymphony, DemonicSymphony



Series: Reason and Ashes [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Child Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Roller Coaster, Explosions, F/M, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Miscarriage, Multi, Mycroft To The Rescue, Pain, Polyamory, Psychological Trauma, Sort-of, Suicidal Thoughts, Terrorism, spousal death, widower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 08:02:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 104,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1502918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmphigoricSymphony/pseuds/AmphigoricSymphony, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonicSymphony/pseuds/DemonicSymphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Sherlock killing Magnussen life goes decidedly sideways for Sherlock and John.<br/>This is the sequel to <i>Raison d'être</i>.</p><p> </p><p>  <b>PLEASE: Read the tags!</b><br/>(If you would like to know more about the character death, please read the end notes)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> De Ses Cendres - French - from his ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please, please again, _**HEED THE TAGS**_
> 
> Believe it or not, we're working toward a happily ever after.

A warm hand wrapped around John’s as he stood there on the hatefully familiar grass, staring at the open ground where soon the dirt would pile, settle, and grow over with life. 

Hadn't he just been here? Had he not paid for whatever misdeeds the universe was trying to collect on? She was not twenty feet from where he'd laid Sherlock to rest. 

He wouldn't ask for miracles today. He'd felt the life go out of her himself, had watched her crumple to the ground just before the resounding crack of the rifle followed, muffled though it was.

Sherlock and John had pitched a handful of dirt each over the coffin simultaneously, watching as everyone else walked away. His hand seemed indescribably small in Sherlock’s as they stood there. John’s thoughts turned to the events that had led them there.

They'd been to the doctor, seen after the baby. Sherlock had been on his way back to Baker Street for a consultation when he got the text.

_Meet us for lunch? New scan picture. Gower Street, that little cafe. - M_

Sherlock still had the picture, hidden away. Mary’s blood still speckled it from where it had landed as she handed it across the table.

The sun was low on the horizon, the waning heat sending the temperature plunging as it was wont to do this time of year. They needed to go. There was no reason to keep standing there. Mary was gone. His daughter was gone. This was just a hole in the ground and box and _they were not in there_. They were gone. Not feet from him. That was dangerous thinking. They were not in there. They went where John could not follow. There was no reason to stay. No reason for his feet to be planted like old roots in the ground. 

For a wild, fleeting moment the urge to jump into that darkness and lie down with them was nearly overwhelming. 

His fingers twitched along Sherlock's as he stared, unseeing. 

_Or you'll do what?_

_I'll marry you, that's what._

Sherlock squeezed his hand in a slow, gentle manner and pulled as he stepped back. His voice was a low, quiet rumble as he broke the cold silence. "Baker Street is warm."

He had been the one to pick up suits, pick up clothes, shut the door on the mostly finished nursery, collapse in front of it and sob for a child he'd never know. To everyone, John included, Sherlock had been his normal, stoic self. In the spare moments when someone else had John, Sherlock had savored every shred of pain. Every single needle of it reminding him that he lived.

The anklet around his leg itched and irritated him, bringing him back to the present. "Come along, John. I'll not let you freeze."

John leaned with Sherlock as he pulled gently on him, though a jolt of panic tore through his chest just before his feet uprooted. "Wait," he whispered, leaning back towards the grave, "wait." 

For the last seven days, John had been mostly silent, speaking only when it was absolutely necessary. He'd existed in a daze, numb down to his marrow. He and Mary had been chatting about names just before Sherlock had joined them, bickering playfully back and forth with Mary handing John horrible options. 

_Oh, well if you don't like Sadie, then how about Bertha?_

Her eyes had shone happily in the afternoon light, glinting with mischief. A bit more of the assassin she had been dying away, giving way to the beautiful woman she'd chosen to become. He'd laughed and kissed her full on, tugging playfully at a lock of her hair. It was the last time he'd ever do so. 

When he was signing the Certificate of Death, he'd named her Elizabeth, it had been the top of Mary's picks, and how could John deny her that now? 

He reached into his breast pocket with trembling hands, drawing out a thin chain and pendant. He'd had it made for Mary to give to her the day Elizabeth made her entrance. He brought the small silver rose to his lips and closed his eyes, breathing in deep and whispering a soft, broken apology to his wife, walking right up to the edge of the grave and crouching down. He rest his elbow on his knee, head in his hand as he steeled himself, dropping the chain down.

Sherlock caught sight of the chain as it dropped. He blinked back tears and put both hands in his pockets as he waited. 

_’Do we still have that silver from the weird case by the river?’_

_‘The silver we found by accident and were allowed to keep?’_

_‘Yes, that... can I have it made into something for Mary? For when she has the baby?’_

Sherlock had never been able refuse John much of anything. What was a small hunk of silver? He had no vested interest in it. He’d gone to the closet in Baker Street right away and retrieved it.

He found himself wiping a tear that came unbidden. Sherlock did not yet disturb John. They could spare a minute longer.

John stayed there, crouched at the graveside, staring at the polished black wood of the casket. 

_We… Dr. Watson, we can deliver… allow you to see-_

_No. God no. No. Let… Jesus… let them stay together. No I- excuse me._

John had been staring at the image on screen, Mary artificially respirated with a vicious hole in the side of her neck, throat and arteries torn open from where the bullet had punched through. The baby was already gone, little arms unmoving, heart no longer in that chaotic little flutter. 

_Of course it sounds strong. It's your child, how could it not be?_

John had been violently ill right outside the door, unable to make it to the lav. It wasn't until Sherlock scraped him up off the floor that he'd even realized he'd tossed up in front of all A&E. 

In the present John seized up with grief. "Sherlock," he whispered.

Sherlock was beside him in an instant, crouching and pulling John to his feet. He wrapped the man into his arms, hiding him from the scene at his back. The arms around John were strong, one at his waist and one hand on the back of his head. "Baker Street. We'll come back with flowers or- something. Baker Street is warm." _And not covered in memories of your dead wife and child._

He let John lead, not wanting to rush him away, but not wanting to let him linger long enough he had to be forced away either.

John leaned into Sherlock, hardly breathing for several minutes before he gathered the strength to move. Mycroft had left them a car, thankfully, and John kept his eyes to the ground as he moved. 

The trip to Baker Street was lost on him as he stared down at his hands. He'd known the second he'd crawled to her side that she was gone. Her eyes locked to his just before the lights had faded, body seizing for a few seconds as the brain reacted to such catastrophic blood loss. He'd known before he'd tried that she was beyond help, had seen it time and again in the field. He'd screamed her name and pressed his hands desperately over the pulsing wound, helpless to do fuckall but watch her die. 

When the car came to a stop, he did not notice at all, focus down on his curled fingers, shaking like a leaf.

Sherlock was able to extract John from the car with gentle movements. Mrs. Hudson was just coming back down the stairs and patted Sherlock on the arm. 

"Full tea upstairs if you can manage any of it." She disappeared into A as Sherlock guided John up the stairs. 

John's coat and then suit jacket were stripped from him. Sherlock was tender as he settled John into his chair. "I'll pour you a cuppa. Mrs. Hudson has made those tiny sandwiches you love.”

John reached down and slowly pulled his shoes off, socks set inside them, leaving him barefoot. He leaned back in his chair, elbow on the rest, fingers that still smelled of dirt against his lips. 

Not a month before he'd been debating how to keep them both in his life. Not a month ago. His eyes rested on Sherlock's chair, sliding unfocused for just a moment. 

_This is my note._

John closed his eyes and shivered violently. "Sherlock," he called out, suddenly overwhelmed with his solitude in the room, "Sherlock!"

Sherlock dropped everything, rushing to John. His knees hit the floor in front of John's chair as he folded the man close to him. "I'm here. I have you."

Things were so monumentally _fucked_. John had nothing steady. He'd lost Sherlock only to gain him back after finding Mary, then he'd essentially lost Mary and gained Sherlock. For a couple of brief weeks, John had had everything. Things had settled, snark was had in massive loads that seemed to comfort John. Mary and Sherlock were masters at taking the piss out of one another, making John laugh, huff, and sometimes just put his paper up ignoring them completely.

That was all gone and for once in his life, Sherlock had absolutely _no_ clue what to do.

John immediately felt foolish for having panicked. Sherlock had only been in the kitchen for god's sake, yet it had felt so deeply similar to coming home after putting him in the ground that his higher thinking had shut down and he'd succumbed to fear. He leaned into Sherlock as the terrible, cloying numbness settled back over him, leaving him… nothing. He'd yet to shed a single tear over the matter, still very much in the early stages of denial. 

He closed his eyes, perpetually shivering with pent up stress, brittle as spun glass.

Sherlock held John close. Their heads rested against one another. All he could do was wait for the break to come. Mycroft had John's pistol. Sherlock had not even trusted it taken apart and hidden. He loathed that he was monitored as he was, the ankle monitor was hell. Sherlock wanted to take John out of the country, go somewhere warm, distract John when he broke…

"When I buried you… when… well, what I thought was you..." John had to stop, clearing his throat as his eyes burned. "I sat here for days. Just… sat here. That's all that's left. That's… h-how am I going to… the nursery and-" he snapped his jaw shut, breathing overly fast, his body reacting where his mind was numb. 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. His voice was rough, a shadow of its normal self as he spoke. “Minute by minute, second by second if we have to. When you are ready, we will take care of things. If you’d rather not at all, I can- I will take care of everything.”

John stayed just as he was, resting his cheek on Sherlock's shoulder, heart racing despite the dull nothing he felt. "I want to sleep," he answered, constantly ill, quite sure he was not going to be able to carry on. Sherlock was under constant threat of removal, even Mycroft dropped the warnings that they'd take him away in a heartbeat if he stepped out of line. 

Apparently, shooting a high-profile news syndicate owner in the face was a poor choice when one valued freedom. 

At least Moriarty had surfaced, diverting Sherlock's banishment. At least. Christ. _Christ_. The only deaths he could trust were his wife and tiny child. 

He wanted to close his eyes and never fucking open them again. "I just want to sleep."

"Come. Up with you." Sherlock was gentle as he pulled John to his feet. Everything was done in measured movements as he took John to the bedroom. Large, skilled fingers undressed John to his pants before he shifted covers and tucked John in. He hung John's suit up in the closet, his own following soon after. 

Sherlock crawled into bed with John and opened his arms.

John shifted until his head was resting over Sherlock's heart, eyes falling closed as he listened to it beating. He curled his fingers up to his lips, shivering as Sherlock's body heat pushed some of the chill away. 

_We are going to need a bigger bed then, John, if you can't decide where you want to sleep. Sherlock is sodding tall!_

John's breathing stalled out and for several moments, he was like his wife, his lungs still and refusing air. Words tumbled off his lips when he finally dragged in a breath. "It's cold out. How… how bloody stupid that I… it's just… they're outside. It's cold. It's cold and-" he shook his head, pressing his head down to Sherlock's chest. "It's so stupid." 

Sherlock wrapped a hand at the back of John's head and rubbed over his back in slow, gentle movements with his other. "It isn't stupid. It's a very valid and normal reaction. You're worried about their comfort even though there is no logical reason to do so." Tender kneading worked the back of John's neck, a small bid to relax him.

John was quiet for a long while, periodically battling the urge to get out of the bed and go lie down on the dirt with them. Sherlock's steady heart beat was all that kept him grounded, focusing him where he needed to be, reminding him that he wasn't alone, at least not at the moment. 

Despite his want for sleep, it never came. The hours ticked by and still he lay awake, oddly empty and so filled with grief at the same time he had no idea what to do with himself. The baby had been due in a few days time. Just a few days. It was half two when John spoke, no idea if Sherlock was still awake or not. 

"I'm… I need a drink." 

Sherlock had let himself slip mostly to sleep, one ear out for John. He hummed and nodded. "Come on then. Warm pyjamas and a scotch by the fire. How does that sound?" His voice rasped and he thought that a drink would not be an objectionable thing at all right then. Everything was fucked anyhow. 

"You don't have to get up," John whispered, shifting to get out of bed. He dragged on some overly large t-shirt and a pair of loose cotton trousers, arms wrapped tight around himself, as he shuffled out of the bedroom. He made it into the kitchen and stopped, staring blankly ahead. 

_You haven't got a friend called Beth. He's going to figure it out._

John shook the thought away and moved slowly to the counter, grabbing down a bottle of scotch and a tumbler, carrying them both with him to the sitting room. He sat down in his chair and closed his eyes, trying to gather himself. 

Sherlock trailed along, staring at the sitting room a few minutes later. He wandered to the kitchen, pulling down a tumbler for himself. John's glass was filled before his own was and Sherlock took a few minutes to build the fire up to crackling and casting heat and soft light all over the room.

_Is the bathroom like the rest of it?_

He'd scrubbed the fireplace for two days after the incident off and on. Magnussen... Sherlock thought he'd protected them all.

John ignored his tumbler until the fire was going. Only then did he bring it to his lips, guzzling it down like water. His stomach bucked on him even as he got up and refilled it with shaking hands.

Fuck it. Just… just _Fuck it_. He was done. Perhaps Harry had the right idea anyhow. He sat down on the floor directly in front of the fire and, despite the fact that his stomach was actively heaving, took down the second glass in one go.

Sherlock moved a step to the left so that his leg was against John’s shoulder and he could lean if he needed to. The mirror in front of Sherlock reflected him in the wan firelight. Shadows played over him, making him look as haggard as he felt. Scotch warmed him from the inside as the fire took the chill out of the air. Life inexplicably churned on, despite the mind numbing halt it had come to for the inhabitants of 221 B Baker Street.

John managed to put away half the bottle in half an hour. He was soon leaned hard against Sherlock's leg, dizzy and drunk, not feeling better in the slightest.

"'S my fault," he breathed. "I chose… I- I was going to be a dad… a dad… and now I'm… an-it's-a matter-a time before… before you're gone too an- and..."

Sherlock, despite his want to drink himself into oblivion, had kept himself to two glasses in that same half hour. His voice was soft. "I am not leaving you, John. I am afraid you are decidedly stuck with me." Long fingers trailed through John's hair in a reassuring caress. 

John started laughing then. "I thought they were gonna annihilate you… f-fucking Appledore, you… Jesus. That was a shit goodbye at tha plane, ya know? I've lost you three times. Maybe you get to lose me next."

Sherlock gave a noncommittal hum. “I’ve never done well with goodbyes. You know that.” His fingers wrapped in John’s hair and he pulled slightly, tipping John’s head back so that he was looking up at Sherlock. “You don’t get to give up on me John. I’ll not allow it. Do you understand?” Something dark, dangerous lurked beneath Sherlock’s words.

John let Sherlock handle him without any reaction at all. He started up him for several moments before looking away.

"I've earned it," he whispered quietly, starting at the flames. He closed his eyes then, leaning hard against Sherlock's leg.

Sherlock breathed deep, eyes dropping closed as he eased his grip in John's hair. He didn't know where that had come from. John was sacrosanct and could not be allowed to slip through his fingers. "I have you, John. I will pick you back up when you hit the bottom."

John was as close to the bottom as he could get without his gun. He reached out with a trembling hand and silently pulled the bottle to him, tipping another glass, again putting it down like water. Perhaps he'd black out and that would be the end of it for the night. If he was lucky, he'd feel like utter shit in the morning. He simply leaned against Sherlock's leg, working on another glass, swearing as the pour missed most of the tumbler and ended up over his quaking hands.

Sherlock leaned down then and plucked the bottle from John's hand. He poured him one more glass. "Last one, then you will get comfortable... or stay where you are if it suits. I'd imagine the amount you've managed will take you down sooner, rather than later. Going to feel like hell in the morning and you're not doing this again. Your sister has very eloquently outlined what happens when people in your family use alcohol as a crutch."

John tossed the drink back and stood up, staggering, giving Sherlock that tight, angry little smile Mycroft so frequently had been the other end of. "You don get ta make that choice," he slurred, keeping his feet as the room began to spin. If Sherlock was going to stand as a target then John would gladly divert from his anguish. "I'va sat w-with you an- cared ff-for you and bloody fucking _buried you_! NO! I watched my… my wife shot… and my daughter-" he stumbled, losing his footing without even moving, grabbing his chair to correct himself. "F-fought three goddamn t'mes an if I wanna get fuckin' pissed then I'm gettin fuckin pissed!" 

John was pushed so far from himself, so trapped in a corner crushed under grief and loss, hopelessness squeezing his heart until he could barely function, that this seemed the only way out of it. His intoxicated mind was _done_.

If John needed a target, Sherlock would be one, gladly. "And I went through a month of torture to get back to you. I clawed my way out of my mind repeatedly when all I wanted to do was go to sleep and not have to wake up. In case you failed to notice, life is a cesspool half of the time. You have been through hell, John. You deserve to get pissed every night if you want to. But it won't solve anything and it's certainly not what your wife or daughter would want for you. Since they are not here, as the person left who cares for you, I will stand up for them and say _No, John, you cannot do this to yourself_." 

Blind rage tore through John and he shouted at Sherlock, hardly able to form words in his sputtering fury. "DON'T! Don't you f-fucking _dare_! You don' get to-" he tore his fingers through his hair, virtually hearing Mary sadly whisper his name. He nearly threw a fist at Sherlock, stopping in the last second, dropping down into his chair and tearing at the hair just over his ears, elbows on his knees, suddenly screaming out his grief. 

Sherlock watched him with unnatural calm. This is what John needed. He needed a reaction of some sort, any sort. Rage worked. The only thing Sherlock did was get a bucket and line it with plastic shopping bags. He brought it back into the sitting room, just in case.

_'Yep, definitely a little girl. She's in good position, everything looks in order. Due next week, so mum if you start feeling back pain, well, I'm sure you both know what to do but you call if you need anything.'_

_John stared at the screen, watching the baby as she grabbed at her hands, little mouth opening to suck on the back of her fist. He'd never been more proud in his life. He looked down to find his wife staring at him, and not the baby. 'Don't look at me, you can see me any time,' he whispered to her, leaning in and kissing her cheek. 'She's already beautiful, like her mum.'_

_Mary smiled at him and in a rare show, teared up, touching his face and then looking back to the screen. 'Elizabeth, you'll come round to the name eventually. She's Elizabeth.'_

John was breathing in a chaotic, wild mess, stars cracking along his vision. They couldn't be gone. They couldn't be. He'd lived a moral life, for the most part, paid his taxes and followed the law. He stopped to help blokes with their flats and caught criminals between doctoring. His family had not been taken from him, they hadn't. It was a horrible dream he was going to wake up from, and Mary would kiss him and he'd feel her belly and… that's what it was. Odd dad sympathy dream. That would be it. He was dreaming. That's what was on. Pain often fixed these things, right? Pain in a dream and the sleeper wakes. 

With that thought in mind John narrowly got to his feet, staggering so hard to the left he crashed against Sherlock's chair before correcting himself, moving back to the fire and slowly extending his hand. "Wake up, John," he whispered to himself, "wake up."

Sherlock closed his eyes before reaching out and catching John. He pulled him in against him. “John. I’m sorry. I am sorry.” He pressed his face down against John’s hair. Sherlock was prepared for him to do anything from shout to melt into the floor sobbing, there was really no way to tell what would happen but Sherlock would catch John, no matter what.

John shook his head, speaking slowly. "I jus- need to wake up. Thas all. I'm… is not… I jus need to wake up." He pressed against Sherlock's chest, trying to put distance between them. "I jus need to wake up." 

Sherlock let out a slow breath. "Let's get you to bed. Just, come lie down for a while? Come lie down, John." He was cracking apart. "I am sorry."

John was having a hard time keeping his legs under him. Perhaps if he went to bed, he'd wake up properly. That would be it. He allowed Sherlock to move him, walking in a daze, all the emotion from earlier vanished away. He was suddenly docile.

Sherlock would take it, for now. John needed more sleep. He guided John to bed and tucked him in there. "Rest, John. The morning will bring something different." Sherlock returned to the sitting room and poured himself another glass of scotch before returning to his bedroom. He settled himself in the chair to watch over John.

John was off asleep nearly as soon as his head hit the pillow. He lay curled up tight on his side, not at all typical for John, nearly fetal in his posture, hugging a pillow to his chest. The darkness came spinning down on him, plunging him into sleep as though he'd jumped into the sea. The alcohol was doing its work, and for a long period of time John was motionless, breathing slow and deep. 

Sherlock watched as the sun came up, wan light creeping across the bedroom and eventually dusting over John's face. At some point, Sherlock had placed the bin by the bed along with two glasses of water and two codeine tablets. John was going to be miserable when he woke, Sherlock had no interest in doing anything to prolong or intensify it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to our beta Lyrical Soul! She has put up with so much and slogged through so much. She is _awesome_.

John reached out as the light made him stir, dragging in a sharp breath in response to a brilliant, throbbing pain in his head. “Mar-” Her name died in his throat even as he reached out to touch her. The reality that it wasn’t a dream - that he was alone - washed over him.

His chin dipped and he lowered his head, oblivious to Sherlock. "Right," he breathed, holding his head as psychological numbness settled over the terrible physical misery that was his hangover. 

Sherlock's voice was low; a gentle, quiet rumble in the early morning light. "Codeine and water on the bedside table. When you are up to stomaching anything else, I will make or send for it." He fell silent again, not in any way wanting to agitate John.

John looked up then, wincing as he shifted. "Did I- I don't know… Last night did- why are you over there?" He wondered if he'd hurt Sherlock, or done something to otherwise upset him. He reached out and grabbed the pills, swallowing them fast before the nausea really kicked in, only taking them with enough water to get them down. "I- I'm sorry if- if I said something or…" he shook his head, groaning and lying back down. "Don't be angry with me. Please."

"John, I could not be angry with you if I tried. I did not wish to disturb you. You made it quite clear at one point you were very angry with me. After that, you shut down and tried to wake up yourself up, despite the fact that you were not sleeping, convinced you were only dreaming. I put you to bed and kept watch. You drank a small amount more than is, under normal circumstances, strictly recommended." Sherlock held a small, pained smile on his face.

John didn’t dare shake his head. "I'm not angry with you,” he whispered in reply. “I'm sorry." He had no idea what he'd done, only that he felt like hell, and deeply, painfully alone. 

"Please… will you come here?"

Sherlock didn't hesitate. He moved to the bed, and crawled in, careful not to jostle John too much. "Where do you want me?” he asked quietly. “How? I want you to be as comfortable as is possible."

John was careful as he rolled over and moved himself where his ear was over Sherlock's heart, wrapping a fist in Sherlock's shirt. His head felt as though it was going to split from the inside, and it was all he could do to keep the pills down. Faint tremors skittered over his back, and he groaned softly. "I forgot," he whispered, heartbroken. "For a moment… I'd forgotten they’re gone." 

"I know," Sherlock whispered, mindful of John’s hangover. His arm was around John, hand splayed against his back. There was nothing Sherlock could say to fix this. All he could do was rest there and offer comfort.

John spent the next half hour warring with the nausea, the headache, and the chills. When relief finally began to snake around his brain, warm at his stomach and soft like cotton around the base of his neck, he sagged against Sherlock. "They're gone," he whispered numbly, giving a small nod. "It wasn't a dream. They're gone." He shuddered with the reality, though not much registered in his mind. "And I made you lose a night of sleep."

Sherlock was tender as he brushed John’s hair back from his forehead. "Half a night. I slept the first part of it. You know me. I've slept far less for things far less important. I'm alright, John.” This wasn't something platitudes would make better. John had to come through this, or lose himself to grief.

"Yeah," John whispered, listening to Sherlock's heart. He closed his eyes again and floated in the relief the tablets gave him, numb and exhausted. He knew he should feel something, should feel something the same as when he'd lost Sherlock, but there was just blank, empty acceptance. He wished he could just drink himself stupid again, but just the thought of alcohol made him ill. 

He allowed himself to fall into something of a relieved doze, the headache subsiding and heavy exhaustion weighing in on him again. "Is it the twentieth?" he whispered, blurrily dragging his watch up to check. The two and zero sat paired, innocuous and unassuming. He swallowed and just accepted that as well. It was, and he was here, and there was fuck all to be done about it.

Sherlock took a slow breath. "Yes.” He watched as tear rolled off his nose and hit the pillow. He held John tighter against him in an awkward, squeezing hug.

For whatever reason, hearing the date from Sherlock cracked him over the edge. John tipped his forehead to Sherlock's shoulder and quite abruptly broke into tears. She was due today. She was due, and John was going to be a dad, and Sherlock an uncle. There was a crib in his house, stacks of nappies and hanging rows of pink. 

_'Well, what's the baby going to do with a massive stuffed bear then, love?' Mary asked as John dragged in a stuffed bear in soft browns and pastel pinks, nearly as large as himself. 'Whatever she pleases. I saw this, and now she has it. Every proper nursery needs a massive bear, it's only right.'_

"Jesus." His voice was cracked. "Sh-Sherlock." 

Sherlock cried with him, silent tears falling down his face. He stroked John's back as he pressed his face against him. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry." It was too much. _How do we recover from this? How do we move forward, go on, continue breathing?_

"I can't fix it. I've managed to deal with everything else people have thrown at us... but I can't fix this." Sherlock hoarsely whispered.

John went very still and very quiet, as though a switch had been flipped. He drew back away from Sherlock, slowly sitting up, throwing his legs over the edge of the bed and dropping his head into his hands as he leaned forward. 

Oh, but he couldn't do this right now. 

He pushed himself up, swaying, and staggered to his bag at the corner. "Okay," he whispered in response, tears he'd shed drying on his face as he eased down to the floor, struggling with his trainers. There was a deep, terrible ache of betrayal sliding under the grief, all blanketed down by the heavy, numb detachment. 

He'd sort it later. 

Or, more likely, he'd sort it into the Thames. "I'm... you're right. I'll just, okay."

Sherlock looked at him in confusion as he sat up. "No- don't. John, please don't. Come here, please come here?" 

John sat there, struggling with his damned shoe, then gave up and chucked it across the room. He tried to catch his breath as his vision blurred. He should be getting ready for the birth of his child, not- not to give Sherlock space from his disaster of a life. He grasped his head, digging his nails into his temples, screaming in sudden agony before dissolving into terrible, wracking sobs. 

The sound of it pulled Sherlock off the bed as surely as if dragged by wire. He moved across the room and wrapped John up in his arms, holding him close. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, John. I have you. You don't have to go anywhere. I'm going to be right here with you unless you boot me out. I only wish I could take all the pain away."

John turned his face to Sherlock's shoulder and grabbed his shirt with both hands, holding on for dear life as he wept bitterly against Sherlock's chest. He had no concept of the passage of time, no desire to preserve his dignity, overwhelmed with the scope of his loss. For nearly twenty minutes he fell apart, until finally John was dead weight against him, having cried himself right back to that numb place on the floor with one shoe on, slick with sweat and tears that were eight days delayed. John turned to dead weight, no longer fully present in mind.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment before carefully lifting John, muscles straining, still not back to what they should be. He was able to get John back into the bed and the trainer off his foot, swiftly crawling in after him and wrapping an arm around John’s waist. He lay awake for some time before drifting back to sleep himself.

The night was quiet after that, until Mrs. Hudson rapped lightly on the door to Sherlock's room. "Sherlock," she whispered, fretting about at the entrance way.

John heard Mrs. Hudson knock but lay on his side, eyes open, focused on the aglet of his shoestring. 

_He stepped out of the town car in a daze, staring at the front of his home, feeling like he reeked of gunpowder. The hour was obscenely late. John had been rehearsed, and then interrogated until his voice was raw. Christmas had ended all of three hours ago, and the last time he'd seen his wife, she'd fainted away in his arms._

_The light clicked on, and Mary threw the front door open, relief clear on her face. She took one look at John and rushed toward him. "Come inside, come inside, it'll all sort, just come inside." Though she didn’t know the details, she could tell from looking at him that there had been a major event._

_John had no memory of walking into their home, nor the shower, or change of clothes, or even the cup of soup she made him eat._

_"He killed him. Sherlock just… shot him in the face. Right in the face. Took my gun, and- he told me to bring it- I should have known he..." John dragged in a shuddering breath as Mary went pale. He nodded to her. "He said for me to tell you you're safe now. He wasn't keeping physical records. Magnussen. He- his mind palace or whatever the hell he calls his memory. So- so it's, whatever it was that he knew, Sherlock took care of it in front of an entire SC019 unit."_

Sherlock pushed himself up. He rubbed at his eyes, then ran a tender hand through John's hair. "Be back in a moment," he whispered as he slipped from bed. The door seemed miles away through the haze of just waking. Sherlock hummed as he moved into the kitchen, searching for tea. He breathed in deeply. "Mrs. Hudson, you've made roast with onions, and tidied… with lemon scented cleaner." The sun was hung low in the sky, sending late afternoon light through the windows of the sitting room.

She watched him with growing concern, walking over and putting her hand gently on Sherlock's arm. "Sit down, dear. Please. I can't do much, but I can keep you boys fed and clean. Let me do something. Just sit. You've lost her as well. Let me." She nudged Sherlock into a chair and bustled about, pouring tea she'd already made, and putting it in front of him before setting about making him a small plate of cheeses and fruit. When she put that in front of him, she brushed her fingers through his hair affectionately, and then leaned in, hugging his head to her chest for a moment. 

"He's lucky to have you," she whispered before fluttering away as she teared up, not wanting to make a scene. 

"I woke you because Molly and Detective Inspector Lestrade have both been by, and would like to visit. I sent them away with a promise that you'd let them know. The roast is enough to feed everyone, or just you and John. You will let me know if I can do anything, won't you? The washing up or the shopping, or the housekeeping, tea, any of it. For now, I am your housekeeper, just for this bit."

Sherlock teared up as he stared down at the food and tea in front of him. Mary and Elizabeth were gone, taken out with a skilled shot. He took in a sharp, pained breath. "I- thank you, Mrs. Hudson. We had a late night. Afraid we mostly finished the scotch. Not the best way to handle things, but it was needed." 

With a settling breath he stood again. "I'm going to get him out of the bed, and tea in his hands. Molly and Lestrade, I think I'll ring them later." A case. Maybe a case? Get John out of the house, get him going, working, something. God only knew how they were going to wade through this muck.

This was so far removed from Sherlock's area, he wasn't even in the same bloody universe. There were no platitudes, there was no shutting off his emotions as he normally would.

_"Well I've lost him anyhow!" John shouted, and chucked the mug he was holding across the kitchen. It shattered against the wall, splintering into shards, utterly unsatisfying. Mycroft had just got off the line, telling John that while Sherlock had avoided a life sentencing, he was never going to return to England again. Mary had been trying to talk John down from the panicked frenzy he'd flown into, pushed too hard and too long, his typical, strictly held walls crumbling as reality sank in. He'd lost Sherlock in the end, despite it all._

_"You took everything from me! EVERYTHING! I'll never- it's- he's never allowed home again! They're tossing him to the Middle East, and he's already been- goddamn it!" he tore at his hair and knocked the table over, dropping down in the middle of the kitchen, head in his hands, screaming his defeat to the floor._

John had not moved since Sherlock got up, starring in pained silence, unfocused and happy to stay where he was until his heart gave out. 

Sherlock moved into the bedroom a bit numb from all the emotions and touched John’s arm. "John, come on. Apparently one needs to eat sometimes. Or so you keep telling me." He wrapped a large hand around John’s wrist, and tugged gently. "Let’s slip out to the sitting room.”

John abruptly reached out and pulled Sherlock close, leaning forward to burrow his face in Sherlock's belly. He breathed slow and deep, saying nothing, just clinging to Sherlock. The guilt at his words to Mary hung over him even as he felt relief that came with Sherlock’s arms around him. His hands shook from the force of his hold at Sherlock's back, clutching at him as though sure he'd fade away too.

Sherlock stroked through his hair, tender, slow movements. There was nothing but the sound of their breathing for several minutes as Sherlock's mind slid away.

_"Oh for God's sake. I've only been gone four minutes..."_

_Mary's fierce hug when he got off the plane, John's 'You bastard, I thought you were gone.' They’d stood there on the tarmac discussing how it was impossible for Moriarty to have survived until Mycroft insisted they at least all go somewhere more comfortable._

_The three of them curled up in bed that night, Sherlock shoved firmly in the center, his new GPS accessory clamped over his ankle. He'd not slept, choosing instead, to watch Mary and John hold hands across his chest as though they could keep him safe and protected. Sherlock pondered, instead, the possibilities of Moriarty’s escape from death._

There was a sharp intake of breath from Sherlock, and he urged John to his feet. "Sofa, bad telly, tea... there's roast. Molly and Lestrade want to come by..."

John reluctantly allowed Sherlock to push him away, dropping his eyes to the floor. He nodded and gave Sherlock his space, shivering as he moved. He walked out of the room and to the sofa without thinking on it, sitting down and staring at the floor. Something was shifting between them again, and John wondered how long he'd be allowed to remain at Baker Street. Grief had a way of slaughtering relationships, and it very much felt as though that were happening now. 

He propped his elbow on the sofa armrest and covered his eyes, forcing himself to think about his and Mary's home. Could he go back? Sleep in their bed? Sort through her clothes? 

He exhaled slowly, sick at the thought, though desperately trying to keep himself together.

Sherlock put bits of the roast on the plate of cheese and bread Mrs. Hudson made for him and poured a cup of tea. He settled next to John and nodded at the plate. "Share a bit with me?" His hand rested on John's thigh. It was intimate without thought, a show of comfort. All he wanted was to make John smile again, though he knew it would be a long time in coming.

"I thought we might take a walk later. If you're up for it."

John immediately leaned his shoulder against Sherlock's, settled somewhat by the reassuring contact. He made himself reach out, taking a bit of bread and breaking it off, holding the crust in his lap and slipping a small bite between his lips, chewing slowly. 

He gave Sherlock no resistance in his efforts, slowly sipping at the tea, and forcing himself to take in a bit of cheese before his stomach rolled, warning him off any further food. 

He wrapped his arms loosely around his middle and closed his eyes, the crown of his head brushing Sherlock's neck. After a moment, he curled his legs up beside him, needing to get as close to Sherlock as he could. "I… let me stay. Just for a few days. Please, I know I'm… please just let me stay." 

Sherlock's heart seized up. John thought he wanted him out. All the food and tea was set aside and Sherlock pulled John into his lap. His arms went around him as he buried his face into John's hair and breathed deeply. "You never have to leave. Not ever. You always have a home with me, John. Always." He rubbed John's neck gently.

_"Sherlock!" Mary's voice rang out from the kitchen. John was at work, and Sherlock had just finished putting together the changing table. "Sherlock Holmes!"_

_"I am_ thinking _!" he called out from his spot on the floor with his head lying on the bear plushie._

_"Yeah, well dinner won't cook itself, and unless you want John going hungry this evening, come fetch this pot down, you bloody tall git. I can't reach it!"_

A small smile crossed his face as he held John, rubbing his back in a soothing motion.

 

John wrapped his hand in Sherlock's shirt and held tight, pressing his face to the side of Sherlock's neck. He smelled of home. Familiar and comfortable in all the ways Sherlock Holmes was never meant to be. John banished the feeling of foolishness as he crawled up, pressing closer into Sherlock's lap. He was too fucking worn down to give a damn about boundaries and dignity. There was no dignity in this. None. Given that he was brushing right up to the edge of suicide or chemical dependency, he could surely allow himself the simple comfort of a damned embrace. 

Sherlock did not know how long they sat there as he held John close to him, allowing his mind to be free of the effort of tracking time as it normally did. At some point, he wrapped a blanket around them and reclined against the arm of the sofa. He found that he couldn’t stop touching John - his hands moved across his back, his neck, through his hair - offering comfort and intimacy, just what he thought they needed. 

John ended up tucked against Sherlock like a child, fingers curled up to his lips, silencing his mind as he listened to Sherlock's heart beating. He did not want to see Greg or Molly, or Mycroft, hell, he hardly wanted Mrs. Hudson around. They all knew his grief, would all be so infuriatingly sympathetic, so sad and fucking gentle with him. 

And damn it, he didn't fucking need that. 

_”John. Just stop for a minute, please. Just stop. It's okay,” Mary whispered as she caught him back from his pacing an hour before it was time to go say his final goodbye to Sherlock. He was a complete wreck, his hair a mess, face awash with tears, shaking to bits. She pulled him into her arms and slid her fingers through his hair. "Breathe. Breathe for me. It looks hopeless now, but hasn't it done so many times before? Don't lose hope. He's Sherlock."_

Sherlock eventually texted Lestrade. 

_Bring Molly - SH_

Ever so gently, Sherlock kissed the top of John’s head. His voice was quiet. "I've texted them to come. Molly- she's good." And Lestrade read Sherlock better than anyone other than John or Mycroft. 

John shifted off Sherlock's lap and went into the lav. A quick wash of his face and cleaning of his teeth, and he was back in his chair, resting his head in his hand. He hated that people were stopping by, but he knew he couldn't avoid it. He found that fogging numbness that was swiftly becoming familiar and sank down into it, detaching himself as much as he could from the situation. 

Sherlock was torn. After a few minutes he pushed himself to his feet and moved into the bedroom. A pair of trousers and a button up made him feel somewhat more in control. He cleaned his teeth, and calmed his curls before returning to John, sitting across from him.

He moved his chair forward, so that their knees slotted together when he sat down. Sherlock reached out and took John’s hand. He wanted to speak, to tell John it would be okay… but the truth was it would never be ‘okay’, it would just be something they were eventually able to _somewhat_ deal with.

John opened his eyes and stared at their joined hands. This had been what he'd wanted...hadn't it? This… whatever it was with Sherlock? Decidedly not at this expense, but this- this...

He shivered and closed his eyes again, neither leaning into the touch nor away from it, firmly sheltered in numb detachment. When Mrs. Hudson opened the door, and the soft, familiar voices of Greg and Molly floated up, John slowly drew his hand away, realizing only then that he was still in the night clothes that likely stank of spilled scotch. Fuck it all, it didn't matter. 

He stared at Sherlock with a flash of worry over his expression, suddenly feeling self-conscious at the thought of having to interact with anyone else. 

That look tore at Sherlock's heart and he whispered, "You can go lie down if you'd rather... if it's too much, too soon." Sherlock was floundering, lost as to what to do for John. Logic dictated he get John interacting with people again sooner, rather than later... but damned if he didn't want to lock himself away with John in the bedroom, and tell the rest of the world to take a permanent fucking vacation.

John was about to speak when Greg's voice came gently from the doorway. "Afternoon, Sherlock, John." Molly was just at his back as he walked in, one hand in his pocket, a decent bottle of McClellan in the other. He held it up to Sherlock with a shrug, clearly a bit awkward, “Thought you might need this later.” He went into the kitchen, leaving Molly standing awkwardly in the sitting room.

Sherlock nodded to him, grateful and apprehensive of having the bottle in the flat all balled into one massive knot lodged in his throat.

“It’s nice to see you.” Molly spoke up after letting the silence hang a few beats too long. “Well, not nice under the circumstances of course, but nice- um.” She trailed off and fidgeted as she stood there.

John debated getting up, but decided there really wasn't a reason. He gave a wan smile in a greeting to them both, trying to keep his breathing tightly controlled. 

Molly made her way to John, and folded him into a hug. She didn't speak for a moment, then drew back to look at him. "I know there's not much I can do, or say... Oh, John." Molly hugged him again.

John allowed himself to be handled by her, even leaning into her gentle embrace. She was warm and familiar, where John was freezing, and a stranger to himself. Molly had gone to such lengths already to help him. The funeral had been closed-casket. John had not been able to bear the idea of seeing Mary with make-up she did not apply, lying in a dress she wouldn't have ever worn...

"The little blanket. She… I had them… you made it with your hands and it- it felt wrong to do anything else with it. So it's with… with them." He was hardly audible as he finished speaking, throat burning along with his eyes. John scrambled back to the mental place, down where he was numb and steady, shocked that he'd become emotional with her with such ease. 

Greg walked back out and crossed over to Sherlock, silently handing him a glass with two modest fingers of whiskey, touching his shoulder for a moment before standing, quiet, at his side. 

Molly sniffled and nodded. "Thank you." She leaned back and smiled to him. That particular Molly smile when she was pleased with something even though the circumstances were strange or sad. "Can I make you a cuppa? Anything like that?" 

Sherlock finally spoke as he held the glass. "Mrs. Hudson made a roast, there's plenty for everyone." The kitchen was clean, there were no hazardous experiments and only a few body parts tucked away in the refrigerator.

John shook his head, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands in his lap. He truly wanted to crawl up into bed and sleep until he died. The idea of entertaining with roast and muted, forced conversation sounded appalling. 

Greg cleared his throat and thanked Sherlock quietly, not wanting to speak for Molly, but sensing John's unease. He nearly opened his mouth to update John on the investigation, but the man looked ready to break apart as it was. 

They were all aware of the spate of those shootings across London in the last three weeks. All woman, all ranging in age from mid twenties to late eighties, all races, occupations. There seemed no discernible connection. The sniper or snipers used the same rounds, same weapon, and struck at all hours of the day and wildly varied locations. They did not seem concerned with discovery or capture. Mary's killing had been a perfect example. One clean shot in the early afternoon on a busy street. In and out, nothing at all to even source the location of the sniper nest. 

"Molly, are you hungry?" Greg asked quietly, not exactly sure what to do with himself. 

Molly shook her head and touched John's shoulder. "We won't keep you. I just wanted to come by and say hello. You call me if you need anything, even laundering clothes." 

Sherlock nodded his thanks to them. It was quite enough social interaction for one day. "I'll text if we need anything." He cleared his throat. "Thank you." It was a genuine sentiment from Sherlock. 

Concern was written all over Molly, for the both of them, Sherlock noted with some surprise. He nodded to her, trying to reassure her.

John pushed himself out of the chair, standing awkwardly, knowing exactly what social graces needed doing, but not being able to muster up the manners to stick to them. "Thanks… thanks, Molly," he whispered. She'd been so good to him while Sherlock had been critical. The memory of her constant, dependable help made him step forward and pull her into a proper hug. 

"She really admired you," he whispered thickly. "Thank you for everything you've done for all of us." 

Molly hugged him tightly in return. Outside of the Holmes brothers and the Watsons, Molly was the only one who knew Mary had shot Sherlock. John's bedside confession had shocked her, but she'd defended Mary to Mycroft, going so far as to slap him for the sake of the baby. "She loved you, John,” she said softly. “She-" Molly paused. Mary had done so much _wrong_ , but then put John and Sherlock back together… “She loved you.”

The conviction in her words left no room for doubt that Molly firmly believed that. She pressed a tender kiss to John's temple. "You call me if you need anything, John. Anything at all, yeah?"

John let her go, stepping back and feeling ready to crack apart. He nodded, unable to speak. 

Greg put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and gave a firm squeeze. "I'll text you about the case. Need a bit of help when you can manage it. Scanned the casefile; it's already in your inbox." 

He'd included it all. Forensics, pictures from the scenes, and the recovered bullets from bodies or the walls behind them, every bit of data he could get on the victims, all of it. Everything he could think would be useful to Sherlock. The man likely needed a distraction from this. "Text if you need me, even if it's just to vent." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Greg but nodded in acknowledgement.

Greg walked over to John, and without a word pulled the man into a strong embrace, holding him tightly for a few moments, then letting him go. Greg nudged Molly, nodding to both John and Sherlock, and headed down the stairs. Molly gave a quick, awkward wave and followed.

John stayed exactly where he was, staring at the floor, a breath away from falling apart. 

Sherlock watched him for a moment, then set the mostly untouched glass aside and stood. He wrapped his arms around John and held him. "Bedroom or sofa?" Once he had John back down, he'd throw himself into the case. Mary's killer would be found, and Sherlock would tear them apart with his bare hands if he had to.

John shook his head. "I-" he was breathing in tight, overly-swift little bursts, nearly panicked. "I want to walk there. I'm going to walk there I- I have to go see them." 

Sherlock nodded. "Clothes. You need warmer clothes. Let's get you dressed for the weather and we'll go. I'll piss off if you want, but I'll walk you there at least." Broad hands stroked over John's back. "Does that sound alright?"

John nodded and moved with Sherlock, following him into the bedroom, all but humming with nervous energy. He pulled on the clothes Sherlock handed him right there in the center of the room, not paying any attention, moving as an automaton. He slid into his trainers after Sherlock fetched the one he'd flung in frustration last night.. 

He was fully shaking by the time they walked back into the sitting room, fumbling with is coat, nearly hyperventilating. 

Sherlock helped him with his coat before getting into his own. He pulled John into his arms. "Breathe for a minute, John. Just breathe. Slow and deep. Slow and deep." His hands were gentle on John as he breathed that way himself, trying to coax John into calming down.

John grit his teeth and tipped his forehead to Sherlock's chest, grabbing the lapels of his belstaff and holding tight. "I should be going to hospital with flowers and a car seat. I should be going to hospital, not to a grave. Not to a fucking grave." He was having a hard time keeping his feet under him, pulling hard at Sherlock's coat, nearly choking on his grief. 

It took him several minutes to finally calm down enough to try and match Sherlock's breathing, and several minutes more before he was actually able to manage the pacing properly. 

Sherlock held him through it all. His voice was rough when he answered. "You should be. Flowers, car seat. I should be pacing, watching bloody youtube videos on nappy changes, and the best methods of sleep training, and all that. Making charts of how big she was compared to yours and Mary's height, and-" Sherlock's voice cracked,and he stopped talking. "I'm sorry."

"Stop," John breathed, unable to stand it. "Please… please stop." He was actively picturing himself pacing with an infant in his arms as Mary consulted the computer, trying to sort swaddling.

He let go of Sherlock, and turned for the stairs, going to be with his wife, moving without paying much attention. The walk would take fifteen minutes, and after years of travel he knew the route rather well. He moved without thinking, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

When he finally stopped walking, oblivious to the cold and no memory of the trip there, he realized what he'd done. He was damn well standing at Sherlock's plot, his feet having taken him there by sheer muscle memory.

Sherlock followed John at a respectful distance. When John wound up at his grave, he closed his eyes in dismay, wanting nothing more than to apologise, again, for the charade. But he stayed back, allowing John his space, pushing his hands deep in his pockets, waiting for John.  
 _Breathe._

John stared at the onyx headstone still in place, a detail that had been left. He pinched his thumb and forefinger over the bridge of his nose, and accepted that this was part of his history as well. He took a few deep breaths before turning left and walking toward the fresh mound of dirt and small marker. The tombstone, white marble, with only Mary’s name listed, was on order. The closer he got, the more intensely his gut twisted, until he was nearly bent double, going to his knees just beside the freshly filled grave. 

"Mary," he whispered, splaying a hand over the cold earth. 

_It's cold outside…_

He closed his eyes, head bowed as his heart raced. "I… god I miss you. I miss you." 

Sherlock moved to his own tombstone and gazed down at it.

 

_"But, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this..."_

It had taken every bit of strength not to go to him. Sherlock shoved away from the stone and strode to John's side. His hand dropped to John's shoulder in support, a reminder that he was not buried twenty feet away.

John startled hard when Sherlock touched him, having been on autopilot since leaving the flat. Of course Sherlock was there, John thought. was. Where else would he be? He hadn’t left his side since... He stopped that thought and smoothed out the dirt, hating that it wasn’t exactly level. She deserved...

Well, what in the hell was he thinking? She deserved not to be in the ground, to have had time to work out the mess with John and Sherlock while mothering his daughter, she deserved a hot cuppa, and pillows at her back, and a comfortable place to nurse. 

Elizabeth's name was not even listed. At the time, John thought it… wrong to do so. She was still in her mother's womb, exactly where she'd been the most comfortable throughout her tiny little life. John carried on smoothing out the fresh packed dirt, oblivious to the tears rolling down his cheeks, occasionally dragging the back of his hand across his eyes and smudging his face. 

"I told her that she took everything from me. When Mycroft told me you… that I'd never see you again… I shouted at her. I told her she'd taken everything from me. Days ago. Just days. I… I never set it right. I never set it right. I just- I..." his voice broke as his hands suddenly stilled, teeth clenched and head bowed as he silently cried. "Oh my god, Sherlock, she's gone. She's _gone_." 

"She knew, John. I saw the look in her eyes, her body language... You two were settled as far as she was concerned." Sherlock kept his hand steady on John's shoulder as he watched him. "There was nothing to set right as far as she was concerned. You can't fake that look in the eyes, John."

John deserved so much better than this. John deserved his wife and his child. Not a childish, emotionally stunted detective... He should never have come back and involved John. But Sherlock would be damned if he was going to abandon John Watson.

John did not move for a very long time, so long that his elbows grew stiff and the color slowly bled out of his fingers. She was there, just beyond his reach. He was so tempted to _dig_ and what the _fuck_ was wrong with him?

"I should be with them," he breathed, "or me in the dirt, and them up here. This isn't- this..." He suddenly screamed in his anguish, the sound scattering birds, fogging the air around him as he caved and laid his head down over them, one hand clutching the loose soil, willing something catastrophic to strike him down. 

Sherlock went to his knees beside John and wrapped his arms around him. This was intolerable, but better than the numbness John had wrapped himself in. John ceasing to exist in any normal fashion had terrified Sherlock.

“I’m sorry. I am so sorry. All I can offer you is me, John. It’s all I have. Me, cases, Baker Street. I know it’s not them, and I know it doesn’t even compare… but it’s what I have.”

John didn't hear him. Not over the grief shredding through his mind, tearing his heart apart. He sobbed against the dirt, falling apart, hardly able to draw a breath deep enough to fill his lungs properly. 

_'No, John, we need a proper pediatrician. You're going to panic if she gets sick, and you know it. Get a referral from one of your friends, and let's go interview.' She'd smiled in exasperation, dealing with Braxton Hicks as she tried to talk sense into him. John had sighed and grumbled, openly fussing about anyone else treating his daughter, even as he stood up and moved to Mary's side, rubbing her shoulders as the false contractions wracked her body._

_Guilt lodged in his chest ‘I am sorry you had to do most of this alone,” he said gently. “Bit your fault, but this… this wasn't how I wanted your pregnancy to go. I… I'm just sorry you did most of this alone.’_

And now she was gone, and his daughter… He felt his stomach turn. He was going to sick up right here on their grave, he thought as he gripped at the earth, awash in a tidal wave of grief he could not control.

_'Oh my God, was that the baby?' He groggily rolled over, looking at his wife. He'd been properly punted in the small of his back, a swift thump that was strong enough to wake him. Mary had been behind him, her belly pressed up against his spine. 'Yes, she's eager to say hello,' Mary said with a smile, already awake from the baby moving about. John beamed at her, and pressed a gentle hand over her swollen abdomen, speaking softly as the baby thumped against his palm. 'Settle, little one, settle.' He leaned in and gave his wife a slow, lingering kiss, smiling against her lips as the baby shifted in her belly._

He shouted again, the sound dying down to heartbroken weeping.

Sherlock could do nothing but watch as John melted down. Keeping one arm on John, he texted Mycroft..

_Send car, possibly physician. Preferably Mark Walthers, if available, at least ask him if he will be on standby. John down hard at grave. SH_

He continued stroking John's back, waiting for him to calm. Trying to drag him away would only result in a scene neither of them had the strength for. John had to let this out. Sherlock rested his head on John's back, continuing to speak low to him, reminding him that he was right there by his side.

John lay there against the cold earth until his tears ran dry and he was shivering violently with the cold. 

Mycroft sent a car without replying to the text, quite sure there was nothing he could do beyond alert their physician, and provide transport. 

John knew he had to get up, had to walk away from them. His reserves were utterly tapped out; he couldn’t find the strength to move. "Tell me they're not here,” he begged Sherlock, his voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, raw and cracked. “Tell me…”

Sherlock was tender when he pulled John into his arms and tucked the man's head against his neck. The words that flowed from Sherlock were low, gentle, a memory from when he'd buried Redbeard.

"Do not stand at my grave and weep,  
I am not there; I do not sleep.  
I am a thousand winds that blow,  
I am the diamond glints on snow,  
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,  
I am the gentle autumn rain.  
When you awaken in the morning’s hush  
I am the swift uplifting rush  
Of quiet birds in circled flight.  
I am the soft stars that shine at night.  
Do not stand at my grave and cry,  
I am not there; I did not die."

A few heartbeats of silence followed before he whispered, "Parts of them will always live on with us. Let's go home, John."

John pressed his face against Sherlock's chest, letting the words wash over him. He could not make his feet move. He waited until Sherlock led them away, since he wasn’t sure if he would make it home in this state - face a mess of tears and dirt, he was sure, pale, shivering. 

A light mist was beginning to fall, and the wind kicked up. 

_It's cold outside._

_We're not there._

Sherlock pulled John to his feet, keeping an arm around his waist. The car was waiting, warm and quiet at the edge of the grass. Sherlock got John bundled inside, with all the care he could muster. He wrapped the waiting blanket around John. "I asked that Mark be available... if you feel you need something. Not that you have to have it. I just want you to know it is an option."

John leaned against Sherlock, clinging to the blanket, trying to stop shaking. He didn't give a damn about what he needed. Why should he? He burrowed his face against the side of Sherlock's neck, smearing his collar with dirt, uncaring. The car ride was nauseating, but they'd managed to avoid the increasing snowfall and the long walk, for which John was grateful. 

The car pulled up in front of Baker Street and Sherlock began the task of getting a dirty, exhausted John inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Sherlock recites is _Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep_ by [Mary Elizabeth Frye](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Elizabeth_Frye)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience. I will not promise a chapter for two weeks. Hopefully our regularly scheduled Friday updates can continue weekly, but things are still a bit nutty for both of us.
> 
> If you notice any glaring errors, please contact us here or on tumblr (same name!) I've done the best that I can...
> 
> (Thanks to LyricalSoul for help with the start of this chapter and sending her all sorts of hugs!)
> 
> -Symphony

Sherlock’s face showed his gratitude, unguarded for a moment when he saw Mark and Mrs. Hudson in the sitting room. His voice was soft as he guided John past them. "Let's get you cleaned up, John." Sherlock was gentle as he settled John on the closed toilet lid, gratefully noting John’s shaking had finally stopped. 

Starting with his dirt-caked shoes, Sherlock began the task of getting John undressed and clean. It was a slow process, but soon Sherlock had John stripped to his pants and completely cleaned of all dirt. There was a gentle kiss pressed to John's forehead before Sherlock stepped into their room and gathered a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms for John.

Once he'd gotten John fully dressed, Sherlock helped him stand. "Bed or sofa?"

John didn’t respond. He remained docile, malleable, unresponsive, staring straight ahead as Sherlock tended to him.

Sherlock looked at him, then guided John to bed and tucked him into it. His hand smoothed over the blonde hair in a tender caress. “Rest. I'll be back soon.”

In the sitting room, Mark smiled sadly to Mrs. Hudson and looked down at the kit he'd brought. "He'll get through this, they both will. Just need time."

Sherlock stared out the window. "They're here. Is the table set?"

"Sherlock, it's Mark, he's seen you in your pants, and both of us at our worst. He's not going to give a damn if the table is set. Besides, his wife sent us the photo of them on the beach. They're here for a pint and chatting. Dinner is a perk. Honestly, what are you so nervous about?" John's tone held the fond irritation it often did when dealing with Sherlock.

It had been the only time Mark had met Mary. He'd pulled Sherlock aside later that evening.

"How are you? I mean really, Sherlock. Is this okay for you?" Concern was written all over the doctor's face. Sherlock looked over to where John and Mary were laughing with Mark's wife, and his face actually lit up with his smile. "It's not for the masses... but we're happy." He looked back to Mark. "All of us."

"I'm going to go see to Mark and Mrs. Hudson. Do you need anything?"

John was so deeply withdrawn that he hardly registered that Sherlock was speaking to him.. He was completely washed out from the day - days, really- as if something in him had died at the grave site. He could feel it missing, though he couldn't place what. The grief had shifted somehow, and he’d reached his limit, utterly unable to carry on dealing with it.

Sherlock ran a hand over his face, and then touched John's shoulder before moving into the sitting room. He was still a mess from where John had covered him in dirt. The Belstaff slid from his shoulders and was hung on the coat rack. "Mrs. Hudson. Would you see about sending that to the cleaners? The other is upstairs I'll... I'll bring it down."

Mrs. Hudson tutted. “Sherlock, oh, look at you. You're filthy.”

He looked down at his trousers, observing the dirt he hadn't even realized was there. "He's not responding to me. Had a break down at the grave. He's tired, I think. I am out of my depth."

Mrs. Hudson set a cup of tea down on Sherlock's little table. "I'll see to it, Sherlock. You should clean up, put something warm and comfortable on." She wrung her hands for a moment. "Oh, my boys." There was a moment more of fretting, a touch to Sherlock and then Mark's shoulder before she disappeared downstairs with the coat.

Mark pointed to Sherlock's chair. "Sit down for a minute, Sherlock. Sit down. Take a breather. I'm going to go look in on John in a moment. Please, sit with me, have your tea." Sherlock looked like he'd been to hell and not quite made it back. While Mark could still see the shadows that lingered from Sherlock's recent intense medical issues, he looked much better on that front.

John Watson had been a mess when he'd last discharged Sherlock from the hospital. He'd been hanging on by a thread as it was, and Mark was not at all surprised that this horrific loss had pushed him over the edge. "Breathe, Sherlock. You're not alone in caring for him, alright? We've got people around us, and I'm going to help as well. He's going to come out of this, and so are you."

For a moment, Sherlock looked as though he were going to protest. Then with a sharp bob of his head, he sat in his chair, holding the cup of tea as though it were a life preserver. He sipped at his tea as he watched Mark for a moment. It seemed he had found a place on Mycroft's permanent payroll, most likely as his personal physician

Mark stared at Sherlock for another minute before getting up and walking silently into the lav. John had sent him photo locations of all the medicines, drugs (and yes, of course John knew of the Moroccan case and the needle, though he never took it away as Sherlock never took the drugs, leaving him his 'option'), and chemicals in the flat. He returned to the sitting room with two of the prescribed anti-anxiety pills, and gently rested a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. "I can stay a while. Please take those. You look ready to fall apart, and that's fine, you're allowed but I need to know your heart's going to hang on, okay?"

Sherlock took the pills without protest, a telling gesture. The pills were washed down with tea and Sherlock looked at his laptop. He had a limited amount of time before they would take effect.. "The case... their case. I have to check, to see... There has to be something I can do."

He opened his laptop, going straight to the pictures. When he saw the blood on the pavement along with the voids where Mary had lain, John had knelt, and he had stood, Sherlock's stomach rolled hard and he slammed the laptop shut.

"Right," Mark said as he walked over and took the computer out of Sherlock's lap.and set it aside. "This is avoidance, and it's fine, but you've got to calm down a bit, Sherlock. Will you come with me to see if he's asleep? John sometimes gets… difficult with me… when he is agitated. I don't want to upset him further. If he's asleep, then you and I are going to sit here and have a chat."

Sherlock gave a small sigh and pushed to his feet. "Let's check on him. I'll change as well. Mrs. Hudson won't appreciate me tracking dirt everywhere."

Mark got up with him and collected his kit, following Sherlock into his room. He hung back, letting Sherlock approach John first.

John was exactly as Sherlock left him, though his eyes were not quite open as widely as before. He was boneless on the bed, limp and still, cheeks dry, staring at nothing. 

Sherlock was tender as he touched John's head. "John..." He stared down at the man, worry etching itself into his face. What was he meant to do for him?

Mark moved to Sherlock's side, crouching down to look at John, who had failed to look at either of them. "Go change, Sherlock," Mark whispered, leaning in to get a proper look at John with a penlight. He went through the motions of ensuring nothing medical was going on despite his suspicions of what was wrong. Mark did not bother speaking to John. He dug out a vial and a syringe, injecting John without getting any sort of reaction from him. 

He moved John so that his knee was bent, keeping him tucked on his side, and bordered pillows around him. When he was satisfied, he left the room, returning to the sitting and texting Mycroft. 

I will likely kip here for the night. Sherlock is doing as well as he could possibly be in this situation. You'd be proud. 

Mycroft actually took the time to reply to Mark. He had not expected this to hit Sherlock as hard as it had. It was a severe miscalculation on his part. Not that he had pulled the trigger, or even had it pulled... But that didn't mean he hadn't suspected it was coming.

Thank you. Don't hesitate to tell me if you need anything. Or if you think they could do with something. M

Sherlock emerged a few minutes later in his normal loungewear, dressing gown billowing behind him as dramatically as the Belstaff.

Mark looked up and nodded. "John's in shock. I've given him an injection to put him to sleep. He should be down for the night. I'm leaving medication for him to take daily, instructions are on the label, same as yours, really. This isn't unexpected or unusual. I have complete faith that he will eventually get back to himself. It's been a difficult year for you both. Now come, sit, and tell me how you're doing." 

Sherlock settled into his chair and looked around Baker Street. "I am completely out of my depth. I have never entertained emotions in my adult life except where John is concerned. That grew and enveloped Mary and Eliza-" his voice cracked and he took a sharp breath. "Elizabeth. Her name was Elizabeth." 

The muscles in Sherlock's jaw twitched and he took a deep breath before he continued. "I cannot fix this, I cannot simply will it away."

Mark nodded gravely. "Nor should you try. That would be devastating. No one, John included, needs you to fix anything. He's going to hurt, and it's going to be one hell of a ride. Sherlock, he needs you there. That's all. This is what's so hard about helping the bereaved. There isn't anything to fix, it's not a sprint it's a marathon. He's going to go through it all, five stages and all of that, forwards and then backwards, and then forwards again, until he's worked through it. It's a horrific loss, and he was already well taxed before. He needs you next to him, even when he's unreasonable and messy. That's it." 

He spoke softly to Sherlock, trying to soothe him. "Sherlock, anyone would be at a loss here. I recommend you have your friends around often. John is the sort who hides when he really needs interaction. I've watched him for months, I know that man in grief. Don't let him isolate and don't let him push you away. He'll try, but that's not what he wants." 

"I did the correct thing earlier... asking Lestrade and Molly to come by?" Sherlock had doubted even when John hugged Molly. He'd doubted himself, his judgement. "I am compromised and not at all accustomed to it." His hand rubbed over his face, clean once more. "He- This wasn't supposed to happen. Everything was supposed to be _safe_ now."

Mark nodded sympathetically. "Of course it wasn't supposed to happen. It never is. This is a nightmare, Sherlock, and if it were any other pair I'd seriously worry. But you two are going to get past this. You did the right thing earlier. He needs you and he needs you to do a bit of his thinking for him at the moment. He's not in self-preservation mode, he won't do right by himself. He needs help with that. You- I know you love him, Sherlock. There is no one better to help him, he needs you." 

He sat there, honestly hurting for the men he'd come to know so well. "And if you need help, and don't want to go to your people, you come to me. Day or night, you can come to me with absolutely anything." 

Sherlock looked around the sitting room again. "Was meant to be our office, lab, place to store bloody costumes for undercover work." He shook his head. "The nursery is ready. I even lined the nappies and wipes on the left hand side. Both of them left handed... And there's no one to go in there." 

Unbidden tears finally rolled down Sherlock's face. "I'd gotten used to the idea, looked forward to it. And it's all... gone. Every bit of it gone and I can't do a bloody thing about it." He nodded a sharp little bob and wiped his face with a napkin. "Ridiculous. It cannot be undone, no use in this mess. I have things to look into, see after, John to care for."

Mark inhaled slow and deep, deciding to tackle this with great caution. "Sherlock, you can't do that. Logic has no place in grief. It's a terrible loss, and you are going to feel it. You owe it to John to allow yourself to feel it. If you bottle that up, it will out in ways you won't be able to control. That man in there," he pointed towards the bedroom, "has been an increasing danger to himself for months. I can tell you right now that he's suicidal without even talking to him, I've seen him like that before and I know he's like that now. I very much need you to hear that you've got to allow yourself to hurt, so that you can control it. I'm so sorry, Sherlock, I really am. This is...not at all what I wanted for the pair of you." 

"I don't do this." Sherlock whispered in a fierce tone. "I didn't... until John. It's uncomfortable and it's hellish and I want to lock it all away, delete it. But I can't. I won't let him down. I'll grieve with him, I have no choice. I can't _not_ grieve. I've read enough to realize that doesn't work in situations like this. People crack apart. My own self-preservation may not be particularly spectacular, but I will go to extraordinary lengths to save that man in there."

Mark tented his fingers and leaned back, watching Sherlock closely. 

John had endured months on end next to Sherlock in some horrific situations, and it had nearly taken him down. John had seemed a very emotionally stable man, and he'd been reduced to this several times, though not so severe. Mark wondered in that moment, just how long Sherlock would be able to endure. John was violent and angry when hurting, often breaking into outbursts of indignant rage before collapsing in on himself. It would become exhausting. 

"Sherlock. You need to let me know right now if this is too much. I can take John with me, and I'll ensure he receives excellent grief care until he's more stable, and then you two can sort out where to go from there. This has not even begun for him, not really."

Sherlock's head snapped up and his hand balled up. "You will not take him from me. I need sleep. I have barely slept the last week with arrangements and then he got so pissed he couldn't stand last night and I sat up and watched him to make sure he was okay."

Mark put his hands up and shook his head. "The pair of you I _swear_. I'm not going to forcibly take him, Sherlock. I want him with you! Please remember that I'm on your side. Look," he tipped his watch, "it's half seven. Will you please eat and then go to bed with him? I'm kipping on your sofa tonight. Anne already knows, she's flexible. Sends her condolences and wants to help, but we will talk about that later. Please, there is a sandwich made already. Have a glass of milk with it, wash up and go to bed? I'll be right out here if you need my help." 

Sherlock took in a slow, deep breath. "My apologies. I'll do as you suggest." The drugs were pulling at him and he closed his eyes for a moment before pushing to his feet and moving to the kitchen. Things rattled around as he drank a grass of milk and ate the sandwich. At one point he pointed out there was a perfectly good bed upstairs, "But you probably won't go that far... at least go get the blankets and pillows from it."

Really all Sherlock did was go through the motions before crawling into bed with John, a murmured, tired 'goodnight' to Mark as he drifted through the sitting room on his way. His arm found its way around John's waist and he tucked up close to him, nose buried down against his head. Sherlock was asleep before his backwards count from one hundred reached ninety.

Mark texted his wife to confirm that he'd be staying with the men, and then settled in for the night, his phone close, an ear out for both Sherlock and John. 

It wasn't until four in the morning that John came awake, screaming in Pashto, soaked from sweat and nearly falling from the bed. 

Sherlock was out of the bed and under it, groping blindly for something to use as a weapon before anything else could register. He made his way over to John's side of the bed under it and called out softly in Pashto, "Can you get down safely?" Being woken like that shoved Sherlock firmly into combat mode and his only worry was getting John down and safe  
.  
John blinked in the darkness, his heart racing terribly, interpreting the sweat on his hands as blood as he scrambled around the bed, searching blindly, his breathing shattering in and out of his lungs. 

He'd been running like hell, returning fire only to find himself trying to drag Mary and his newborn, who were both bleeding out, through Kandahar. Sherlock had been screaming John's name, but John could not find him. "Help!" John screamed in Pashto, deeply confused.

Mark shot off the sofa and came running, all legs and reaching heart. "John, it's alright," he called out as he approached, "you're home, John!"

Sherlock scrabbled for anything, but there was nothing, nothing at all. There was an intruder though. He slowly pulled himself to the edge of the bed on John's side to peer out and assess the situation. His brows knit as Mark's voice started to filter through the haze of _fear, anger, pain, protect._

"Mark? Home? Baker Street?"

Mark swore under his breath, keeping very still and watching Sherlock, whom he'd not noticed under the bed or missing, all his focus on John. 

"Sherlock, you're home. Please wake up, you're home." 

Meanwhile John carried on scrambling over the bed in a panic, quaking hands searching desperately, sweat dripping off the tips of his hair as he pleaded under his breath in Pashto, the injection making it very difficult for him to properly wake. He was sobbing now, in total hysterics, clearly not seeing the room around him. 

"Sherlock," Mark whispered as he realized he was dealing with a veteran who was within arm's reach of the nightstand, making Mark crouch down to Sherlock's level even though they were far apart, "where is John's weapon? Is it in the night table?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Mycroft." He slid himself out from under the bed, switching to Pashto as he moved. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and he moved like a panther in only his pyjama trousers. Every scar and muscle showed. Though he'd lost mass in hospital, Sherlock had worked hard the last month and a half to gain it back.

"John Watson, you are home, Baker Street, London." Sherlock's voice rumbled through the Pashto words as he reached up and tenderly carded a hand through John's hair. "Nightmares, John. Nightmares. You aren't in the desert. You're home with me."

Mark lunged forward as John reacted, grabbing Sherlock by the wrist and torquing hard, landing Sherlock on his back, John's other hand going right for his throat. 

"JOHN!" Mark shouted, wishing he'd hit the gym a few thousand more times before he came into contact with these two. He dove, wrapping an arm across John's chest as he stood at John's back, trying to pry him off Sherlock without hurting him. "John wake up! That's Sherlock, you've got hold of Sherlock!" 

Sherlock went completely limp under John. Only his free hand did anything thing as he slid a hand along John's thigh. He had another forty-five seconds before his brain and body started protesting the lack of oxygen and he started to struggle. The hand lifted and tenderly caressed John's jaw as Sherlock looked up at him. In John's drugged state Sherlock _could_ get him off... but he really didn't want to hurt him.

His eyes met Mark's and he shook his head as best he could, trying to get the man to back off.

Mark let the John go, more relaxed with the situation now. John was trembling like a newborn foal, weak under his hands. Mark stepped back, allowing Sherlock to handle the situation as he would, intent now only to intervene only if absolutely necessary. 

John watched Sherlock in obvious confusion, slowly letting go of Sherlock's throat as Sherlock touched his face. He went very still, save for the wild flail of his ragged breathing, blinking as he tried to understand what was happening. "I… I can't find them," he whispered in Pashto still, pulling his hands into his lap and staring at what he interpreted as blood, fingers shaking horribly, "I can't find… I had them..." 

Sherlock sat up and folded John into his arms. He slid to English in gentle tones as he tried to coax John out of the nightmare. "They weren't in the desert, John. It happened at the cafe. We've buried them, they're at peace." There was a moment of quiet before Sherlock spoke softly again. "Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there; I do not sleep."

_Christ._

Mark leaned his back against the wall, closing his eyes in the face of such intense grief. He heard John sob a heartbreaking _no_ before breaking into quiet, weak tears. 

John sagged into Sherlock as the fog began to clear, memory of the actual day finally surfacing. His breathing began to steady out despite his tears, and within ten minutes he was limp against Sherlock's chest, making the man shoulder his weight, shivering in the wake of the dream. "I'm… 'm s-sorry I… I didn't know it was you." 

Sherlock dragged the duvet to them and wrapped it around John. "No, no... I know. It's why I didn't struggle. That would have made it worse." He let the tears fall freely, letting his grief show. "I have you. We will make it through. Second by second if we have to. We won't let them be forgotten." 

His head tipped to John's and he whispered, soft, low in Pashto. "I love you. I have you."

Mark quietly let himself out, going into the lav and running the shower. John looked as though he'd been doused with a bucket and he'd require a wash and the bed needed changing. He stacked towels up on the counter, knowing Sherlock would hear the water, before he let himself downstairs to 'A,' trying to rouse Mrs. Hudson for help locating bedding. 

John curled his fingers to his lips as he rest his head against Sherlock, struggling to get himself back under control. "I'm sorry," be breathed, over and over again. 

Sherlock shook his head. "No reason to apologize, John." He kissed his temple. "Let's get you into a warm shower. You're still shaking. I can come with you." 

John and Sherlock could be heard making their way in slow, measured movements to the shower. Mrs. Hudson came to the door in her dressing gown. Within a few minutes she and Mark were stripping and making up the bed once more.

"Tell me they're going to be okay, Mark. Those boys can't take much more."

Mark was fitting a corner of the bed when he looked up at her. "Let's hope that Moriarty business is an elaborate hoax, but yes, they are going to be alright. First month is the worst, but if anyone can make it, it's those two." 

John stripped and climbed shaking into the shower without a word, arms wrapped tight around himself, shoulders dropped and head against the wall as he stood under the hot spray. Within minutes, he was sobbing, left wrung out and empty from the panic of the dream, emotionally weaker than he typically would have been even under the circumstances from the sedative in his veins. 

Sherlock fretted at the side of the tub before stripping out of his trousers and climbing in. "Come here?" He ran a hand over John's shoulder, trying to soothe him as best he could. 

John moved, melting against Sherlock, one arm around Sherlock's neck, the other under his arm, wrapping up to curl around Sherlock's shoulder. He hung on for dear life, falling apart against Sherlock, soothed by the water at his back. 

He stayed like that until the water began to run cool and his legs trembled with the threat of giving out. "I...I want to go back to bed." 

"Let's get you out and dried." Sherlock kept an arm around him as he reached out and turned off the water behind John. Movements were careful, slow as Sherlock helped John out and dried him off. The lanky man was tender as he wiped all the water away from John. 

Sherlock's voice sounded down the hall. "Mark? Would you please bring us both some clean pyjamas? Second and third drawers in the dresser." He turned back to John as he dried himself off and touched his cheek. "We'll go back to bed."

Mark already had night clothes gathered, offering them to Sherlock a moment later. Mrs. Hudson was finishing up with the bed and the sun started throwing pink light across the sitting room. 

John stood there, wrapped in his towel, staring at the floor without speaking. 

Sherlock took them with a murmured thanks. John's clothing was dealt with first before Sherlock shrugged into the tee and pyjama bottoms. "Let's go to bed..." He touched John's cheek.

Mark watched the pair move, John much steadier on his feet, leaned harder against Sherlock. He walked with the men into the bedroom, standing back as John collapsed into the bed, taking the blankets and covering himself up to his neck curled in a tight ball on his side. 

"Sherlock, how about I bring you your laptop and a bit of food, and you two can watch something online from bed?" John needed rest, but he was likely to slip back into rough dreams at that rate. Food had to happen, and perhaps a bit more medication. 

Sherlock's brow furrowed. There was something about his laptop. Images flew past his mind and he bolted for the laptop. The tall man's fingers flew across the keys as he logged in and logged completely out of his e-mail. He stood there, panting, staring down at it in horror. John could not see it.

John had startled hard when Sherlock suddenly ran, getting up out of the bed and moving with Mark into the sitting room. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, hardly breathing as he watched him. "Sherlock?" He whispered, nerves on fire. That had been an explosive reaction, and one that he'd not expected. "What's wrong?"

Mark shook his head and tried to corral John back to the bedroom, knowing what had been on that screen. "Let's get you in bed, you look ready to fall." 

John ignored Mark, his entire focus on Sherlock. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock gathered the laptop in his hands. "I have to work later." The man looked pale, withdrawn as he selected a movie at random and drifted back toward the bedroom. There was a listlessness about Sherlock, a worn, weary quality no one but Mycroft had been privy to before now.

John followed him, and Mark decided to stay put, only keeping an ear out. This was between them, though it was unlikely either would easily yield. 

"What do you mean you have to work? Did Mycroft get more on the Moriarty issue? What… what do you mean you have to work? You aren't telling me something. Sherlock what's going on?" John's voice was trembling as his stomach clenched. 

Sherlock took a breath. "Their case, John. They want my help. I have to help. It's- it's the only thing I can do. I won't let them be forgotten and I will not let this go unsolved." There was no use in hiding it. "I didn't- there were pictures. I didn't want you to see."

John walked to the bed and slowly sat down, sliding a hand through his hair. "Can't… can't you… I don’t know, use the other crime scenes? Not hers? Surely it's the same- same shooter..." he tipped himself slowly to the side, curling up as the room began to spin and he shoved himself into a state of numbness. 

"She..." there had been so much blood. It wasn't the first time John had been knee-deep in it, not the first time he'd seen someone bleed out in less than three minutes, but it _was_ the first time to watch his family die. He ran his palms together, reminding himself that his hands were dry. It had taken nearly half an hour of scrubbing to get them clean that day. His clothes had been unsalvageable, trousers so stiff he'd had to cut them off, going home in scrubs that he'd tossed out as soon as he was made to change. "not much to be gained from that scene, is there?"

"No," Sherlock admitted. "I couldn't look. Just shut the laptop earlier." A hand mussed his curls as he sat there. "I was going to read through and look at the other scenes. I know hers. I can't not work this case. This person- this _animal_ has to be taken down." He reached for John, wrapping his arms around him, his face buried in John's hair.

His voice was muffled as he spoke against John's head. "I will find them. I will be sure justice is done, John. I will not let them be forgotten or their case dismissed as unsolvable and cold. I swear it."

John could only nod, closing his eyes and trying to calm himself down. "You don't get to shoot anyone else though. If you find him, it's my shot this time." He was so damn sick of everyone trying to _protect_ him. If Sherlock killed anyone else, he'd never see him again. They'd lock him up and never allow Sherlock the light of day again. That aside, John felt so damn impotent in the effort to save his family that he could hardly breathe. He'd been worthless, following Sherlock about, unable to do fuck all but lean in and offer his stupid face. 

"My shot." 

Sherlock nuzzled along John's head and kissed his brow. Something dark twisted in him and his voice dropped a shade. "Your shot. We're going to find him, John. We will find him and he will suffer the consequences... Do you understand me? Your shot." Sherlock took in a slow, deep breath. "Do you want to watch the movie?"

_Or do you want to work the case and find this worthless animal?_

John shook his head, eyes closed, floating in that void detachment once again. He set his breathing to something deep and controlled, careful with it, trying to steady himself out. 

Mark sat out on the sofa and for his own sanity texted Mycroft. 

_Sherlock says you are in possession of John's sidearm. Will you please verify that for my sanity?_

Mycroft's reply was immediate. Already up and in the office...

_I do not have it on my person, but as of two A.M. it was still in my safe when I gathered things I needed for the day._

Sherlock brought up his email again. His fingers flew across the keys as he brought up the reports from the other two scenes. The detective settled himself against the headboard. Sherlock's finger scrolled through the report as he wrapped an arm around John.

Mark nodded and sighed in relief. 

_Thank you. That's a relief. I'm already outnumbered, a weapon in this mix would be disastrous._

John listened to the familiar sound of typing as he lay with his back to Sherlock. He closed his eyes eventually and floated in a space somewhere near shallow sleep as his mind offered him blank darkness, interrupted with little threads of imagery. 

He tried to find the rage to push him forward, to make him want to do something, but truly his motives were ulterior. John was a crack shot, but he was no sniper. He simply wanted to present as a target, truly. He could find no point in pushing forward. Sherlock did not need him, and he...what? What was he to do, live a normal life at some point? _Fucking absurd, John. OD already._

Well, there was a possibility. Sherlock possessed heroin, and wasn't that a way to go out? Not the most pleasant, but it would be quick. He stored the thought at the back of his mind and decided, for then, to focus on the feel of his daughter kicking at his palm. 

Sherlock's voice was low, "John... John... Wake up." His eyes flew over the reports. He'd been so caught up in their new life. How could he have missed this? Smallwood was dead, another woman was dead. The woman had only existed for ten years when Sherlock dug deeper.

_Shit._

"John, I think Magnussen had someone waiting to take out former assassins if something happened to him."

_Shit. This is your fault, Sherlock._

John sat up slowly, crossing his legs, hands limp in his lap, and looked over to Sherlock. His expression was completely blank as he stared at him. 

_You're an assassin, how did I not see that?_

He stared at Sherlock, silent, feeling exactly nothing. "Are you sure?"

Sherlock stared at John for a long, quiet moment. "I'm sure. The other woman only existed as of ten years ago. A small amount of digging and I could probably crack who she was... John, I-" This was his fault. Mary and Elizabeth were dead because he'd pulled the trigger on Magnussen.

John cracked an empty, terrible laugh then, shaking his head and dragging a hand through his hair. "So she killed herself. She killed herself and she took my daughter with her. Fucking Christ." 

Sherlock blinked at him and his voice went hoarse. "I killed her, John. _I_ pulled the trigger on Magnussen."

John couldn't help the laughter. It was all so fucking terrible, what the hell good would reverence do? "Oh sure, after she shot you in the gut when you interrupted her killing him, after she'd spent all that time lying to me about who she was, after she _knew_ she was in danger and decided to run about with my child trying to relive the glory days. Fuck off with that, Sherlock, you didn't sodding kill her." 

He pulled at his hair, leaning forward and laughing as tears rolled down his face. "Fuck, _fuck_...goddamn it, Mary!" 

The reaction from John startled Sherlock and his mouth dropped open. Words were on the tip of his tongue but would not come. Sherlock’s hand settled on John’s back and he rubbed there, trying to settle John. After a moment he tugged John to him. Sherlock pressed a soft kiss to his temple as he wrapped his arms around him.

John leaned against Sherlock, still tugging at his hair. "I'm so fucking _angry_ with her what the hell is _wrong_ with me? I love her, I love- but _Christ_ if she'd… I'd have helped her! I'd have helped and instead… and the baby and..." his stomach suddenly twisted violently and he clapped a hand over his mouth, shoulders rounding down as his stomach heaved. 

Sherlock scooped the bin off the floor and handed it to John. "Easy, breathe. Breathe." Mark, Jesus, Mark was still out there. He couldn't think on that now. "John, deep breaths."

John managed to pull the bin into his lap before violently sicking up, his stomach mostly empty, the horrible burn of bile ripping up his throat as tears dripped off his chin and the tip of his nose. He carried on heaving without producing, eventually whimpering pathetically as his abdomen ached and his shoulders shook. It was too much. There was no one to find for revenge. If Magnussen had flown under the radar as he had for so long, if _Mycroft_ couldn't get him, there was no fucking way there were ever going to find his guns. 

So that was it. In the end, Mary had done herself in, pulling John and their tiny child along for the ride. 

John was too gone, still sicking up over the bin, now clutching the flannel to pay much attention to Sherlock other than he needed to go. John waved him off as he folded over the bin again, stomach gone to shreds.

“Mark.” Sherlock called out gently. “I need to make a call. Can you come stand with John, maybe something for the nausea?”

Sherlock waited until Mark was in the room before scooping his mobile from the table and disappearing upstairs, the phone ringing Mycroft already. This was too important for texts, he needed Mycroft’s _tones_.

Mycroft stared down at his mobile and closed his eyes, willing himself steady. It had taken Sherlock a day longer to puzzle out than he'd expected, though John as a variable was difficult to predict at the moment. 

"Sherlock," he answered, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. 

"You knew. You-" Sherlock made a small noise of disbelief before his tone grew dark. "Did you refuse to warn us because I took him from you? Is that what this is about?"

A shock of white, crisp light pushed Mycroft down into his chair. How the hell Sherlock puzzled _that_ bit out was beyond him. Had he been so obvious?

"What is it that you believe I knew, Sherlock?"

"You knew the assassins Magnussen had information on were being taken out. One by one. You knew Mary had to be on that list. I called to warn you. Obviously he was using your time at university against you. I didn't delete everything from when you abandoned me to the idiots around our home and got to flounce off to school." Sherlock's voice was pained as he spoke. "You should have come to me. Jesus, Mycroft. All of this. It wasn't only Mary I pulled the trigger for."

Mycroft felt as exposed as if he tossed off all his clothing and went for a stroll along the Thames. Of course Sherlock would take private data and sort it poorly. 

With a long, slow sigh Mycroft finally began to speak without much guard up. He'd watched his sibling die, had been pushed right up to the brink of loss with him. He'd not allow this to be misunderstood. 

"You did not take him from me, Sherlock. I owe you a debt of gratitude for the shot you took, reckless nature aside. I did not know he was targeting them all, though I had my suspicions. I… miscalculated his indifference, a gross and deeply flawed oversight on my part. I believed that she would be an unlikely target while carrying. It is rare to find a trigger man willing… the mistake is mine, though you knew the woman, she would have endangered herself regardless." Mycroft held no remorse over Mary's death outside of the effect to John Watson. The woman was a danger, unpredictable and a threat to Sherlock. The child, however… that was regrettable. 

Sherlock let out a little pained sound, though there was relief behind it. Mycroft hadn't sent her to her death willingly. "She's gone and it is killing him, Mycroft. I-" His voice broke on the word. "I don't know what to do other than track this bastard down. You- be careful. I called to tell you to be careful, I don't want this to come back on you too. I'm continuing to rack up a body count."

"No, Sherlock," Mycroft said firmly, shaking his head. "No. You are _not_ to pursue the individual gunman. It's as pointless as killing a soldier to hurt the dictator, he's a paid gun for hire and they _will_ target both you and John, who is easily found, I'll remind. They will not hesitate to put him down graveside and you well know it. No. Sherlock. In this, you can only be his friend. Moriarty. Focus on that. There is where your target is now. John's wife is dead and gone. Leave it." 

Sherlock swore under his breath in French, a long string of curses that were beautiful to the unlearned ear, scathing to anyone who spoke the language. "Mycroft. Send me everything you have on him. I- Lestrade wants help with this case."

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "I've already pulled Lestrade off the case and dragged as much red tape over it as possible. This is justice served, Sherlock. Hitmen are killing hitmen, and it will be over within the week. Charles is dead. He was no James Moriarty in that there is no web. It was his amassed wealth and formidable intellect that set all this in play. No. Do not make me bring you in, Sherlock. I have zero desire to separate you from John. Please, Sherlock, leave it. 

Sherlock near tossed his phone out of John's old window. He ground his teeth as he spun in a slow circle. "I can't even give him her killer!? Oh for God's sake. Mycroft... There was a little girl. A child. A _child_. Her name was Elizabeth. She was due yesterday. I had to bury her. I had to _bury_ her. You have to give us something."

Mycroft loathed the pain in his sibling's tone and spoke cautiously. "You've already put her killer down, Sherlock. In this situation, Mary made her own bed. Had you not killed him, he would have made sport of John's family, likely for years, with a high probability of her death in the near future. Do you imagine that a man such as John Watson would feel a moment of peace after taking down the man paid to shoot? He knowingly remained married to such a person, so clearly he does not find it morally reprehensible to make a living in such a way. There is nothing, Sherlock, nothing that I can give you that will ease his pain other than your continued freedom. Please do not put me in a position to take even that from him." 

Sherlock took in a sharp breath, tone icing over. "Then send me all you have on this insanity that is Moriarty. It isn't him. It cannot be. I was on that roof, Mycroft. He was _dead_."

Mycroft smiled to himself, relieved to hear the words from his brother. He'd likely sort it, and hopefully then he would see to what lengths and personal risks his elder brother would go to to protect him. "This I will gladly grant you. I am going to stop by the flat sometime tomorrow, I will bring everything along then." 

"Fine," Sherlock snapped and ended the call as he stalked back downstairs. The urge to destroy things was near overwhelming. His hands twitched as he stood by the table. In a moment of pure willpower he walked to the bedroom door to observe what was going on. The detective was almost shaking in his bid to restrain himself.

John was up, though the bin had been replaced with a pillow, Mark at his side trying to get him to take a few pills without any luck. 

John looked up at Sherlock in an overly slow, mechanical sort of way. He knew that look all too well. "There's your medicine," he said flatly, offering him an alternative to storming out of the flat. 

Sherlock's jaw muscles worked visibly as he struggled to breathe in any sort of proper manner. Rage boiled and burned through every part of his being. "Have you taken any medicine yourself?" The tone was off, but Sherlock was trying. "Maybe we could sleep... some sleep might help. I need- Mark, I need something or I am likely to be hauled in and arrested."

Mark walked away from John to go fetch Sherlock's standing meds.

John stared at Sherlock and was quiet for a few moments before speaking again. "You aren't meant to fix this. If it's too much, I won't hold it against you. I can… I can go home. Give you space."

Sherlock moved to John's side and curled into the bed beside him. "No, John... you are home." He wrapped an arm around John. "I know it's home too, but- it's Mycroft... they've shut the case down. Classified... I've been warned off permanently under threat of incarceration."

He made a low pained sound. "Now I have to let it go and Mycroft is bringing everything he has on Moriarty tomorrow."

John looked to Sherlock, listening to the way Sherlock bemoaned the case and having his hands tied. He considered Mycroft and his demand that Sherlock leave off. "He's protecting you." 

He knew he should feel more, about all of it, but it wasn’t there. None of it was there. His gut ached and his body felt as though he'd been pressed through a wringer, but he didn't care. He did not fucking _care_. Had Sherlock asked him to leave, he'd would have stood up and dragged himself down to a hotel. John didn’t know if he’d have ever convinced himself to move again.

"Why is he coming here?"

"Because I have to find out who is behind this Moriarty nonsense. I was there, John. I was _there_. He is dead. Dead and gone." Sherlock's jaw worked and he suddenly kissed John's forehead.

John closed his eyes and was surprised to feel a tear slid down the side of his nose, speaking softly as he wrapped his arms tighter around himself. "No, I mean why is he physically coming here? Why is he coming _here_? Can't he send them? Sherlock did… did he know? Did he know this? He hated her, hated Mary, believed she'd hurt you again the moment she had a chance..." his eyes snapped open and he looked at Sherlock as he managed to go even more pale than before, "Sherlock did he know?" 

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath, "Not- he thought she was safe. Safe because of-" His voice cracked and he swore, "Because of Elizabeth." The detective was trembling. "I was right- I was right that he was being abused. It was all- it's all so bloody mad now."

John reached out and slowly put a hand on Sherlock's arm, letting it rest there for a moment before curling his fingers in Sherlock's sleeve and dragging him forward, sliding his arm from Sherlock's bicep to around his back. "Breathe," he whispered flatly, functioning on a mechanical understanding of what he'd normally be doing in the face of this sort of distress from Sherlock. He sank his fingers into Sherlock's hair and gently rubbed at his scalp, closing his eyes and breathing tight and controlled, despite feeling naught but an awareness of detached grief. 

"Then you did… him a favor when you… you did him a favor." Well, what the hell did that mean? John closed his mouth, bristling in irritation with himself. What the fuck was he even saying? If Sherlock had not pulled the trigger, he and John would have been in prison for treason, but his daughter would have been… but who could even say that? Mary may have done… or would she have at that point? Would Mycroft have helped them get released from-

"Sherlock, take these," Mark interrupted his thoughts, handing Sherlock water and tablets. John let Sherlock go and covered his face with his hands, lying flat on his back and breathing too fast. 

The tablets were taken and washed down with water before his brain could rebel. Sherlock could not think. There was too much, it was all too much. His breathing was even and calculated as he stared at the wall. He’d saved Mycroft, himself, and John, only to kill Mary and Elizabeth.

"The pair of you should sleep. I'm going to come check on you both tomorrow," Mark said quietly, dousing the light as he walked out of the room, leaving the men to themselves. He returned the bottle of medication to the shelf it typically rested on and quietly saw himself out, ready to see his wife. 

John stared at Sherlock's back for a moment, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth before mirroring the way the man was laying, wrapping his arms tight around himself and closing his eyes, curled tight on his side. There was less than an arm's length of distance between them, but John felt the walls as though they'd been physically built up. He drew his knees up slightly and closed his eyes, goose flesh blooming across his arms, willing himself to sleep. 

As the minutes ticked by and the pills started their work, Sherlock relaxed by increments. Thirty-seven minutes later found him him wrapping up around John as he started to doze off. His brain ran in the background, subconscious trying to sort through things in his mind palace.

Sherlock fell asleep against John, body finally giving in to the drugs and relaxing.

John began to cry as soon as he felt Sherlock touch him. He'd spent the last- however long it had been, his grasp on time was shifty, at best- cold and dark, putting together plans to get up in the night, dig out Sherlock's kit, and put himself down quiet with the needle. It was too much, and with Sherlock pulling away from him, he had no reason to do anything else but that. He'd been convincing himself that Sherlock would be happier for it when Sherlock's body heat was surrounding him, chasing away the cold, and John was in the temporary shelter of long arms and familiar scent. 

He lay awake for another hour, quietly sobbing, unable to focus on any one thing in particular. Finally he drifted off, his breathing hitching, hand clutched tight around Sherlock's wrist.


	4. Chapter 4

When Sherlock woke, he pressed his face into John's neck observing the warm, familiar scent. He took a moment to run his hand down John’s side, slow and gentle. Moments later he drew back to gaze at John and check on him. The long nap had refreshed him and he noted the hours had given way to late afternoon. Sherlock’s moved to cup stroke his fingertips over John’s cheek.

John had not properly been asleep for what felt like ages. He'd jerked awake not long after falling asleep, floating in a miserable daze ever since. John opened his eyes with some reluctance and looked at Sherlock, braced for whatever it was that was going to happen, not daring to speak.

Sherlock traced John's cheekbone with his thumb before leaning in and pressing a tender kiss to John's forehead. When he drew back his voice was soft. "You should try to eat something. I'll make you some toast with jam and your favorite tea." He watched John, trying to judge his well-being at the moment.

John shook his head and gave in, grabbing hold of Sherlock and pulling himself close. He tucked his face under Sherlock's chin, hands wrapped in Sherlock’s shirt. He held tight, not wanting any distance at the moment, loathing the space where he was alone with just himself. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and lay back down. He pressed his chin down in a gentle manner, putting reassuring pressure on John's head as his voice rumbled through his chest. "I have you."

John sagged against Sherlock at that, relief washing over him. He'd been sure that last night had sealed it, had been one detail too much for him; Sherlock avoided emotionally difficult situations like the plague. When Sherlock had turned away and gone to sleep, it had felt final to John, and had been deeply confusing when Sherlock came back. He kept his fingers desperately tight in Sherlock's shirt, though he otherwise burrowed against him, going limp in relief. "Don't shut me out." 

"Not shutting you out. Trying to keep us even and not let us self-destruct. It's all very foreign." He nuzzled John's head. "Sometimes I have to go quiet. I would have walked out of here and torn someone apart with my bare hands earlier. The guilt-" Sherlock shook his head. "Near overwhelming."

John was quiet for several minutes, simply listening to Sherlock's heart beat. "I would… I would go mad had this been your fault, Sherlock. I won't lie. It would have killed me. But it wasn't, it truly wasn't your fault. You took a shot and sacrificed yourself to do what you could to protect my family. The guilt is misplaced." 

Sherlock sighed in a heavy manner, though there was evidence of relief behind it. He was quiet for several minutes before he spoke. "Thank you. I needed to hear that. It won't stop it yet... but it does help."

John curled his fingers to his lips and just rest there, detached and floating in his misery. He didn't want tea, or to get up, or to speak. He couldn't simply grieve his wife now that he knew that she'd brought it on them herself. Now he was angry, and had to deal with that on top of the guilt, and it was nearly more than he could bear. Sherlock was warm, and present, and… sad, vulnerable in a way John had never before witnessed. John had no idea how to help him. Not only did he have no idea, he had no energy, and not much hope. He closed his eyes and inhaled slow and deep, tears slowly making their way to his jaw line. 

Sherlock lay with John like that for close to an hour, the pair of them wrapped up in one another's arms. The silence was mostly unbroken as they stayed there like that. Sherlock's voice broke it in soft, low tones at the fifty minute mark. "Do you want to move to the sofa?"

John shrugged, completely indifferent to it. "Okay," he whispered, honestly not caring at all. Here. The sofa. It was all the same. He wasn't particularly interested in giving up the blanket he was hiding under, and tightened his hold on it to be sure that if they moved, it came along. 

Sherlock did not move. He was exhausted despite the sleep he'd had. All Sherlock did was pull John tighter in against him. The two of them were floundering and Sherlock was afraid they were going to drown soon if something didn't happen... but he found it increasingly difficult to care about.

Mycroft took the call from Mrs. Hudson nearly eight hours after he'd rung off with Sherlock. Within the next twenty minutes he was in a car, scowling and beyond irritated with Sherlock. When he arrived, Mycroft did not bother knocking, merely let himself into the open flat. It was clear that Sherlock and John had not ventured outside the bedroom the entire day. As Mrs. Hudson had reported, this meant neither had eaten, and likely meant Sherlock had not been taking his daily medications which were necessary to support his healing from the latest surgery. 

"Sherlock Holmes," he called from the sitting room, his briefcase on one side, umbrella the other. He stared expectantly in the direction of Sherlock's room.

Sherlock reached out to the bedside table and gathered the only thing within reach and sent it sailing out of the bedroom door. Somehow the lid stayed on trapping the pills in the bottle. His voice was low and irritated. "Go away. You're not meant to be here until tomorrow. _Go away_."

He shoved his head under the pillow, refusing to be baited out by Mycroft being insufferable.

Sherlock's reaction spurred a bit of protective recklessness in Mycroft, who was now more determined than ever to get his sibling out of bed. He pulled himself to his full height and with his most clipped, demanding tone changed the bellowed command to something far more dangerous with Sherlock so unstable.

"John Watson." 

Sherlock came out of the bed over the footboard in a sinuous leap, his feet hitting the floor with a thump. He stalked out, head canting to the side and a dangerous look in his eyes. He was near snarling when he yanked Mycroft to him by his tie. "Do _not_ fuck with John, Mycroft. This is your only warning."

Mycroft was intentionally physically docile as Sherlock handled him. He could hear John shuffling out of bed, though he kept his eyes to Sherlock, unafraid, unchallenging. He simply looked at Sherlock, taking in the state of him. "I assure you I've no intention of doing so. I've also no intention of allowing the pair of you to waste away. If this is too challenging, we will find another solution. Laying about in bed all day without food or water, without focus, is less than helpful at _best_ , Sherlock, and deeply endangering at worst." He dropped his voice very quiet then, whispering to his sibling in French. 

"He cannot provide care for you right now, brother. He has been in desperate need of help for quite some time. Moreso now than ever. If you cannot resist going down the same destructive path, then you owe it to John to allow someone to step in." 

John leaned against the wall, his arms wrapped around his chest, staring at the men as they spoke. He wasn't trying to understand them, just leaning there, utterly apathetic. His eyes were swollen and red-rimmed and his hair mussed in every direction, bare feet pressed to the cold floor, already debating returning to bed when it was clear Mycroft hadn't actually wanted him. 

Sherlock scowled at Mycroft, loathing that he was just that much taller. His French was low, urgent. "You cannot separate us, Mycroft." The look in his eyes was pained, near haunted. Alarm bells rang in his head about how dangerously co-dependent they had become, but once more he shoved it away. It had gotten better when Sherlock was spending most of his nights in John and Mary's house... but since her death it had been like a rubber band snapping back into shape.

"And yet, it appears I cannot leave you as a pair," Mycroft answered in overly-gentle French, tones he'd not employed since Sherlock lay dying in hospital. "You have already dropped in weight. He-" Mycroft's eyes cut to John before looking back to Sherlock, "look at him, brother. He needs _help_. I understand this is all new, and I am not asking that you get up and about in public just yet, but if you cannot manage basic care of yourself at the very least… you leave me in a difficult position. I am concerned about you." 

Sherlock let out a small, pained sound when looked up to where John was standing and back down at his own wrist bones, protruding more than they should. He took a step back from Mycroft, voice pained, still French. His resignation tattooed over his words. "We need help. I- Mycroft I do not know where to start."

Mycroft kept his face placid, determined not to allow the surprise to show there. He gave a very gentle nod and pointed to the briefcase at his feet. "Very well. For you, there is the work to be done. I will ensure you are eating and caring for yourself." He looked over to John for a moment, disturbed with John's lack of interest in their conversation. "I will make a few calls for him, though I cannot have him placed somewhere against his will. If you are willing, it will be… helpful if you would attempt to convince him to go for his own good." 

Sherlock's head snapped up. "Go?" Panic lanced through him and he actively wrung his hands. That was not what he'd intended. No, they couldn't _take_ John.

Mycroft smoothed his tie before stepping back and looking at Sherlock. "If you are going to sink into the darkness with him, Sherlock, you are best to not be with him at the moment. He needs to be guided through this. If not here, it would be far safer for that to happen at a facility meant for this sort of support. Nothing long term, only to help him through the worst of it." 

The French was finally starting to annoy John, who stared at the floor whiled he spoke low and hoarse, "Rude, that." 

Sherlock was trying his damnedest not to panic. He dropped back to English, voice strained. "We need help. I need help, you need help. We're downing and neither of us cares."

John looked slowly to Mycroft before looking back to Sherlock, a blanketing sense of dread under the overwhelming numbness. "Oh." 

Mycroft watched as John slowly eased off the wall and turned around, heading presumably back for the bedroom. He returned his focus to Sherlock. "Would you consider coming to stay with me for a few days? We can work together on the Moriarty case, give you something productive to focus on."

Sherlock lost it then and there, voice at a shout as he told Mycroft that he was, under no circumstances, _leaving_ John Watson. He fled, searching John out and crowding him into the bedroom, shaking as he slammed the door shut behind him. The door was locked and the chair shoved under the handle as Sherlock searched the room in desperation.

"The wardrobe. The wardrobe can go in front of those bloody useless glass doors." He was muttering to himself before starting for the heavy piece of furniture.

Mycroft heaved a heavy sigh and walked over to Sherlock's chair, settling himself down and waiting for the storm to pass. Sherlock was more unhinged than Mycroft had anticipated. He was seriously debating calling Lestrade over for help, not at all encouraged with the progression of things. 

John sat on the edge of the bed and watched Sherlock fluttering about the room, dragging bits of furniture to form a barricade. "Are they sending the military after you then?"

"It's Mycroft! He's not separating us. I will not let him. Bloody bastard." Sherlock paced the floor. "We can get out down the escape outside my window. I have money stashed and a few untouched personas. I even have some for you... just in case." His mind was reeling, trying to slide from one thing to the next without much luck sticking anywhere or making sense of anything. 

John blinked slowly at Sherlock, trying to find appreciation for his sense of urgency and failing. Sherlock had cracked. "I pushed you too hard," John said without a hint of emotion in his tone, "you've cracked." 

He looked down at his hands in his lap and smiled sadly, his vision blurring. He could hardly pull in enough air around the constriction in his chest. It had finally become too much. Sherlock needed looking after, but John didn't have it in him anymore. He stared unblinking at his useless hands, a tear rolling off his lower lashes and shattering on his palm. "I'm sorry. For all of it. Just all of it. If I'd just kept to myself. I'm sorry, Sherlock, I am." Not that 'sorry' did any good, the damage was done. Sherlock had been through the emotional anguish of watching John marry and leave, and then the physical torment of being shot so soon after suffering torture, only to know that the shooter was John's wife, whom he sacrificed himself to save, ending in her death despite all. 

Because John wasn't brave enough to face lonely. 

"You need help. I can't do it." 

Sherlock stopped and stared at John. His head tilted to the side. There were a few minutes of silence before Sherlock stripped naked, not giving a damn about propriety. Sherlock dressed in one of his best suits, ignoring the way it hung wrong in a few spots from the weight he'd dropped. The words he spoke were low. "My apologizes for putting you through such stress, John. You've been through more than enough without me adding to your problems."

John had eased down on his side, wrapping his arms tight around himself, breathing in a clipped little pattern that had him taking in a short breath, holding, releasing, and repeating. He had no idea what was coming, and he couldn't really be bothered to try and care. What did it matter? He'd broken it all anyhow. 

And then Sherlock was talking to him in that detached, professional way, suddenly properly dressed, every bit the detective and John decided that breathing was overrated and if he could just keep on with holding his breath he'd have nothing to worry about in five minutes time. He looked up at Sherlock from his curled position on the bed, sluggishly taking in the details, finally letting his gaze rest eye-level at Sherlock's hip. He could feel the protective walls shooting up around Sherlock, who had his physical armor back on, perhaps about to go try and convince Mycroft that he was fine. Either way, it was a shift, and a massive one, from moments ago. John simply bit his lip and closed his eyes, fingers curled tight in his own shirt. 

Sherlock moved to John's side, fingers sliding into his hair. His voice was soft, "John, you need to get out of bed. You are going to get out of this bed and you are going to eat something. Come on, up with you, out of the bed. We can't waste away. No one wants that."

John bit his lip, keeping his eyes closed. He did not want to get up. He did not want to go outside and try. He just wanted to lay there and stop, and now there was a threat of having to move somewhere else entirely, of being made to be on his own, of perhaps having to return home within the next few days or even that very day and all he wanted was to bury in the blankets and fade away. 

"You've barricaded the door," he whispered, unnerved with Sherlock's overall behavior, though he couldn't make himself do anything about it.

"Mycroft brings out the worst in me. He always has. Come on, out of the bed." Sherlock stood and strode to the door, making quick work of dispelling the chair and boxes he'd moved in front of it. "I'm going to make tea. Please come out."

A minute later he could be heard banging about in the kitchen while pointedly ignoring Mycroft.

Mycroft was deeply pleased to see Sherlock dressed properly and moving in the kitchen, obviously starting in on tea. He stood up and approached, keeping well out of arm's reach. "I take it you've decided to care for him yourself then?" He had deep reservations about this, of course, given Sherlock's earlier panic and desperation, his own plea for help. 

"You've just said to me that you cannot do this, are you sure, Sherlock?"

Sherlock gripped the edge of the counter. His voice sounded through grit teeth. "I need a housekeeper. Preferably a nurse or an orderly who has spent time in institutions. I think we will heal better here, at Baker Street. Do you honestly think either of us would survive being put in a place like that?"

He'd nearly gone for his box. "The cow skull, Mycroft... take my box with you."

Mycroft nodded, quiet and understanding. "You've Mrs. Hudson who has offered to care for the flat and feed the both of you. John would survive a hospital, I do not believe you would, which is why I have extended the offer for you to come with me and work to keep your mind occupied through the worst of it." 

John was listening to the pair of them, sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. Sherlock was struggling not to get high, and Mycroft was struggling to keep Sherlock safe. Likely it would be better for all involved if he simply went home and faced what needed facing. The empty nursery and he and his wife's room, selling the home only months ago purchased, putting her affairs in order. Slowly he pushed himself to his feet, shaky and numb, walking out into the kitchen and leaning his shoulder against the wall. Without looking at either of them, he spoke very quietly to the floor. "I'll go. I am being ridiculous. I'd rather just go home if it's a choice of that or hospital." 

Sherlock's head dropped, anguish sweeping through him. His voice was hoarse. "You can't do this alone. You shouldn't do this alone. I'll go with you." There was no way Sherlock was letting John go through all of this on his own unless John shut him out. Though as ridiculous as he was being, Sherlock wasn't sure he'd blame John. "If you don't want me, that's fine. It's all- fine."

John walked across the room and pulled Sherlock into his arms, resting his cheek against Sherlock's chest and closing his eyes. "Don't be an idiot," he whispered tightly, hardly audible. "I am too much right now and I know you are struggling to deal with me. You both are in here talking about how to manage me. I don't want to be a burden, and I am one. I would rather go back to her house if it's a question of that or hospital." Despite the detached, numb tone he was using, John had tears slowly sliding down his cheeks, his throat burning and his shoulders shaking. 

Mycroft took a quiet step back, not at all happy to see John in such a state.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, pressing his face down against his head. His voice was muffled against John's head. "No. No. I am _fine_. I am. I'm _fine_." Blue eyes looked up to Mycroft. This wasn't happening. "I am not letting you go by yourself. You're going to eat something, have a cuppa... and then we will go together. We will deal with everything together, John. I am alright. I had a moment where I wasn't, but I'm alright now."

Mycroft cleared his throat and spoke softly. "John, I will have Mrs. Hudson caring for the flat and the meals. Mark will come daily for the next week to check on the physical well being of the pair of you. Sherlock has everything he needs to work from here, which will pacify MI5 and 6, thus ensuring his continued freedom. If Sherlock finds himself well enough to aid you, I will not do anything to interfere in that." He gave Sherlock a pointed look, openly conveying that he _would_ intervene should Sherlock give him a reason to do so. 

"Perhaps Ms. Hooper and DI Lestrade can be of assistance to you both, they are eager to help in any way they can. So long as this is a… sustainable option… then we will carry on as we are." 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes briefly at Mycroft but nodded nonetheless. His broad hands rubbed over John's back as they stood there together in the kitchen. "We'll set timers on my phone if we have to, Mycroft." There was no way they were going down without fighting. None. It was not an option.

Mycroft gave Sherlock a slow, gentle nod. "Very well," he responded quietly, trying to convey to his sibling that for once, he was not seeking to instigate irritation. "John, you have my deepest condolences. Please know that I will do what is in my power to keep you as comfortable as possible." He owed John Watson several debts he would be unlikely to ever repay for the work he'd done with Sherlock. 

John nodded against Sherlock's chest, though he turned his face away, hiding more against Sherlock than before. Mycroft nodded again, quietly excusing himself to 'A,' speaking softly with Mrs. Hudson. 

Sherlock held John there, unwilling to let him go yet. His voice was soft, "I am going to finish making tea and make you a small plate of food. We both need to eat. We'll sit down on the sofa together and we will eat. It's getting late in the day. We will go back to bed and we will attempt to sleep. Tomorrow we will wake up, we will shower and dress, eat... and then we will go start with dealing with what needs doing. Minute by minute if we have to. Alright? I have you, I am not going to lose my mind like I did earlier. I will not let you fall, John Watson. I will not let you down."

John nodded, deciding to allow himself to relax against Sherlock and enjoy the care for while it lasted. He kept his eyes closed, glad that Mycroft had left, glad that Mycroft had delivered work for Sherlock. He'd been fascinated with the Moriarty situation as soon as the dust settled and Sherlock was living with he and Mary, but soon enough things with the baby and life in general had become more pressing to John, who had _had it_ with homicidal psychopaths. Sherlock had clearly still been on the case, working diligently, but John had let it go from his mind in those last few weeks. 

If Sherlock had work, he'd be less likely to succumb to John's sinking depression. He hoped it would save Sherlock from him in the end. 

Sherlock was gentle when he moved one hand to flip on the kettle. The next few minutes were a rather elegant waltz around the kitchen as Sherlock kept a hand on John while he prepared everything. Soon he had a plate filled with light, but nutrient dense foods for the both of them. 

He guided John to the sofa and settled him down on it. "I'm coming right back." The words were soft and reassuring as he moved back to the kitchen before returning bearing the plate and their tea mugs. The coffee table was clean for once. Sherlock arranged everything and scooted the coffee table close. He'd shed his suit jacket at some point. Sherlock settled against the arm of the sofa before pulling John into his lap. 

The plate was close and both tea mugs within reach. Sherlock offered John a bite of banana first.

John had never at any point been cared for like this. He accepted the handling with his mind off, docile and placid, moving with Sherlock in a daze. When Sherlock settled him down on his lap on the sofa, John sank down against him, something in the back of his mind whispering to him how foolish he looked, only to ignore it. Who gave a fuck? Certainly not John. There was precious little to care about any longer. He rest his head against Sherlock's shoulder and closed his eyes, face slick with tears he'd been silently shedding. 

Only when Sherlock nudged him did he look up, reaching out with tremmoring fingers to take the banana and slowly bring it to his lips. He tasted nothing at all, and that was just fine with him, to be honest. He quietly chewed, exposing his breathing for the tearful sniffling it was, grateful for the ability to surrender. 

Sherlock reassured John with tender touches and brief kisses to his head. He kept the pace of eating slow and steady one bite for John, one bite for him until they'd cleared the plate. Sherlock pulled the blanket from the back of the sofa and wiggled down until he was reclining back with John laying on him. Soon he had them tucked in together on the sofa, rubbing John's back while humming a soft tune to him.

John's stomach ached right along with his heart, and he let his eyes fall closed again as he rest against Sherlock, pulling the blanket tight to his face. "I miss her," he whispered in the darkness, his voice breaking hard, "I miss her." 

Despite his heartbreak over her deception, her culpability, he deeply longed for her gentle smile and her soft touch. She knew so well how to handle him. Shockingly, so did Sherlock, though he had never really tried to before now. John still missed his wife though, longed to slide his hand over the swell of her belly, to feel the promise of enthusiastic little kicks. He buried his face under Sherlock's chin, soaked in grief he was sure would never let up. 

Sherlock spoke in an open, honest tone, voice low, "I do too. I wish there was something more I could do or say for you, John." He tucked his chin down against John's head, putting reassuring pressure there. His hand continued to rub John's back trying to comfort him as best he could given the horrific situation they found themselves in.

John sank down into sleep rather swiftly after that. His stomach was full for the first time in days, and he was warm and physically comforted. He'd given vent to his grief, and was otherwise exhausted. 

As promised, Mrs. Hudson made her way up the stairs, quietly walking over to the sofa where the men were resting together. She touched a hand over her lips at the sight of John, looking to Sherlock and shaking her head slightly before running a gentle hand through his curls to try and soothe him. Without a word she gathered up their plate and things, cleaning up, setting out what needed preparing for breakfast the next day. She slipped into the bedroom and made the bed up, turning it down in case they wanted it. The lav was cared for in the same way, fresh towels set out as well as changes of night clothes for them both. John had been showing a tendency to physical illness, and so she wanted to prepare for that just in case. 

Finally she stopped back out by the sofa, again running a hand over Sherlock's head. "Is there anything I can get for you, Sherlock," she whispered quietly. 

Sherlock nodded, "My medicines... I've not taken them. They're in a pill minder by the bed so you don't have to chase down bottles. That and the tablet off my desk, please." He smiled up to her in a sad way. The tablet had been a gift from Mycroft to John while Sherlock was in hospital, though Sherlock often used it to be completely lazy while he was lounging on the sofa. Research seemed so much easier while he was in his pyjamas and tucked up there.

She nodded and moved right away, fetching them both, as well as a pillow for his feet because god help her, she couldn't help fussing over him. She tipped out the day's pills and fetched a cold glass of water. As Sherlock took his pills, she set the tablet within each on the back of the sofa. John's breathing hitched as he shifted in his sleep, leaving him all but whimpering sadly against Sherlock's chest for a moment before he quieted again. Mrs. Hudson tucked the pillow under Sherlock's feet and fussed with the blanket around John before stepping back, looking at the two of them. "Anything else you need, any time, you just ring me up." 

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson. I don't know what we would do without you." Sherlock whispered, rubbing John's back. He had no idea if he'd even touch the damned tablet, but it was within reach and he would not have to disturb John should he need something.

She excused herself as she began to tear up, hardly able to stand seeing the boys as they were. Her mobile was uncharacteristically tucked in the pocket of her dressing gown, stuck to her so that she would be easily reachable, putting to mind plans for the next day as far as what she could feed them, what tea might help John feel a sliver of comfort. 

John curled his fingers in Sherlock's shirt, shifting restlessly though remaining asleep. 

Sherlock stroked his fingers through John's hair and stayed quiet. He wrapped his arms around John, letting his mind go dark and willed himself to rest instead of throwing himself into the case quite yet. John was more important, but he would work on it tomorrow when they were up and moving.

Mrs. Hudson was at the table near ten in the morning, quietly setting up a tray of fluffy eggs and glasses of fresh juice, intent on waking Sherlock relatively soon. Mycroft had been in contact with her since seven am, and while she was glad he was taking more of a proper investment in his family, Mycroft was getting progressively more demanding and, in her mind, transparently worried. She was just folding down a soft cloth napkin when a terrified shriek preceded a terrible crash, nearly making her jump out of her skin. 

"John," she cried, rushing away from her forgotten tray toward the toppled coffee table, where John lay flat on his back, an arm slung over his face, teeth clenched as he sobbed. Tea and the leftover water splattered his clothing, one leg hanging over the edge of the table, his entire body locked up tight and rigid, ready to spring at any moment.

Sherlock was sitting up, looking around in a terrified manner. "John," the name was hoarse on his lips as he looked down and put a hand to his chest. "John?" He'd been sleeping soundly and had no idea what was going on at the moment.

She could not see much of John from the kitchen, the toppled table shielding him from her view save the one foot over the side. Foreign language stopped her from advancing, instantly instilling fear in her heart. Sherlock had nearly come after her when he'd woken thinking he was someplace else, and now to hear it from John who'd been so steady was quite frightening. 

John grabbed hold of Sherlock's wrist at his chest, not moving otherwise, still flat on his back on the floor, face covered. He'd growled for whoever had hold of him to back off, despite the way he kept an iron grip on the delicate bones, and since then went silent save for his pained, hitching breaths. 

Sherlock's voice softened immediately, Pashto on his lips. "England, Baker Street, Sitting Room. If my nose is correct, and it always is, Mrs. Hudson, who is standing in our kitchen right now, has made us breakfast. You must have fallen off of me. We went to sleep together on the sofa. You were tucked up against my chest, John. We're home, we're safe, we are not in any danger. Can you look at me? Let me get you on the sofa and make sure you're not hurt. Please?"

Mrs. Hudson wrung her hands before pressing them to her lips and turning away, too frightened to watch. Sherlock would keep her safe, or else shout at her to flee, and John, John surely wouldn't harm her. She moved back to the little tray, thin hands shaking as she went back to fussing over breakfast for the men. 

John held perfectly still for several long minutes, unwilling to look at Sherlock, to face the day at all. It would almost be better to just go back to the dream than to embrace reality, which he no longer cared for at all. Even as slow awareness of Baker Street returned, the urge to peel out of his skin and fade away grew by jarring, screaming increments. Already it hurt to breathe, and he'd not yet opened his eyes. He shook his head, keeping his face hidden, tears pooling in his ears and foot starting to tingle because of the odd angle. 

Sherlock reached down and pulled John up, with some degree of difficulty, into his lap. There was a soft kiss to John's brow as Sherlock rubbed his back slowly, checking for lumps while he soothed John. "Easy." The English words were whispered against his shoulder. "I have you."

John hung his head, keeping a hand over his face, shoulders shaking, trying to get a grip on himself. His chest suddenly heaved as he reached up with his free hand, sinking his fingers into his hair, pulling tight as he shivered hard and then fell apart, losing the battle to keep himself from sobbing freely. He curled in on himself at the overwhelming and immediate grief, legs folded up in front of him on the sofa, heels to Sherlock's thigh, dropping his head to his knees, collapsing under the weight of desperate sadness. 

Mrs. Hudson left the tray on the table and cautiously made her way back out to the sitting room, standing near John's chair, looking at Sherlock with open sympathy. "Oh, John," she whispered softly, not daring to move closer without express permission. 

Sherlock was cracking apart inside as John went to pieces. He settled on his knees by the sofa and helped John to stretch out. Sherlock was gentle, rubbing over John’s back. "I have you, John. I have you." The detective was at a complete loss as to what to do. He closed his eyes, resting his head down on John's shoulder

John turned away, pressing his forehead to the cushions at the back of the sofa, trying to hide in his misery. He was helpless to it, a raft in a raging sea, simply trying to keep his head above the water. 

Mrs. Hudson quietly came up behind Sherlock and righted the table, sitting down behind Sherlock and resting a hand on the crown of his head, trying to support him as John's grief obviously shook him. After a few minutes, her other hand slid down over his shoulder, across his chest as she swept his hair back at his forehead like a mother would a distressed child. 

Sherlock sat up looking pained. "John..." He didn't know what to do, or say. "Come on, let's sit up. We need to eat something. You have some medicine to take." John's grief was shredding him. Sherlock couldn't remember ever hurting so much over another human being in his life and he loathed it. For John, though... for John he would happily go through it.

Mrs. Hudson eased away from Sherlock, deciding to allow the boys to sort it on their own, quietly giving him a squeeze before standing up and slowly leaving the flat. 

John pressed his hands to his face, nearly sick simply from waking in such a way, face a complete mess. He was struggling to get himself back under control, to be quiet and to respond to Sherlock in one way or another. He didn't want to eat, or to take pills, or to move at all. It was a struggle to get much of any sort of thought in his head, so abruptly and violently pulled down into sadness before he'd even had a chance to start the day. 

Sherlock rubbed John's back in slow, comforting strokes. He sat there, trying to sort through what to do. There was no magic fix to this and Sherlock felt like he was going to shake apart in his skin. "Come on, please. We- both of us need to eat and take medicines. Sit up for me?"

John slowly made himself sit up, resting his elbows on his knees, face hidden in his hands. He nearly whispered an apology but he could not manage to shape words. He shook his head and folded his arms over his knees, resting his head down, bent in half, the shift in position doing little to ease the flood of grief. He'd yet to even open his eyes. 

Sherlock knelt up, wrapping his arms around John. He stayed like that, leaning his head against John's, rubbing his back until his knees and his back ached. He whispered, "I am going to make us a cuppa and try to salvage what I can of breakfast." 

John was all but wrung out at that point, exhausted and spent. "Can I have… have a cloth?" he croaked, his voice wrecked. He caught Sherlock's wrist in his own cold hand, struggling to look at him. "I'm… I'm sorry… I..." he grimaced and shook his head, looking away before he took in a slow, shuddering breath. He let Sherlock go and pressed his back to the corner of the sofa, grabbing the blanket and dragging it up to his chin, eyes closed, trying to catch his breath once more. 

Sherlock leaned then and brushed a kiss to John's forehead. "I have you." Rummaging could be heard in the linens followed by Sherlock messing about in the kitchen. He returned a few moments later with a warm damp cloth, a cool damp cloth, and a dry one on a plate for John. They were set beside him on the sofa. "I'll make us a cuppa, we'll take our medicines, have nibble at least, and then we'll do whatever it is you need to do. Even if it is only to sit for a while."

John spent the day refusing food and medication, only drinking tea and water. He did not speak again, only responding enough to lean against Sherlock when Sherlock physically pulled him over to his lap, otherwise unreachable and unresponsive. 

By six in the evening, Mycroft was back in the flat, standing near the kitchen with his umbrella clasped tightly in his hands. "Sherlock, a word?"

Sherlock scrubbed a hand over his face. He eased John down on the sofa. He’d had no time to look into the Moriarty incident and it was a condition of his continued freedom. If one could call being tethered by a GPS ankle bracelet free. Sherlock pushed to his feet and crossed into the kitchen. "I'll work on it when I get him to bed. I'm _fine_ , Mycroft." And he was. Sherlock was coping with admirable aplomb in the face of something so heart-wrenching. John, however, was not and Sherlock was desperate to will it away, to make John 'better' even though he had no idea what he was doing.

Mycroft watched as John hardly reacted to Sherlock walking away, only wrapping in his blanket and closing his eyes. Mycroft drew in a slow, deep breath and turned to speak with Sherlock. 

"Yes, you are admittedly holding together admirably, Sherlock." There was no trace of mockery or deception in his tone. The words were what they were, and nothing more. He swept his eyes over Sherlock and then pushed himself to move forward. "There has been a development that requires your presence." 

Mycroft had taken a calculated risk, where the cost of failure carried a price that none of them had any hope of paying. Success was the only option, that's all there was to it. "I understand this is not an ideal time, but it cannot be avoided. There is a crime scene." He deeply hoped that the offer of a scene would entice his brother away from John without too much fuss. 

Sherlock looked up then to Mycroft. "A crime scene?" His head canted, watching him. "Tell me everything." Blue eyes flitted to John. "I cannot work- John needs help I am unable to provide. He is unresponsive and has not eaten today." There was a slow, even breath taken as Sherlock spoke the next words. "I cannot help John in his current situation... but I can help in other ways. It is- selfish of me and potentially damaging to John if I continue down this path." His voice cracked midway but he pressed on, eyes moving back to Mycroft. "He needs the best possible care. John deserves it. He has helped me save people… And I am not the care he needs right now."

Mycroft nodded, glad that Sherlock had accepted the work. He'd seen the moment of intense interest and it gave him hope that perhaps Sherlock would be salvaged in the end. "The best. I will see to it personally. Greg will take you to the scene. A stationary shop, if you can believe it. We never released information on his incessant use of I.O.U., and yet there are hundreds upon hundreds of parchment marked as such, nearly all scratched out. More interesting though, perhaps, is the pile of lifeless doves sitting center." He drew out his mobile and showed Sherlock the photograph of a tower pile of dead, white doves easily as tall as Sherlock himself, atop which rest a lopsided, though very expensive and highly adorned gold crown. Parchment littered the floor and hung on string from the ceiling, stuck to the walls, plastered the shop windows. 

John shifted on the sofa, dragging the blankets up over his head and staring at the tightly stitched pattern below, tears slowly sliding down his face

Sherlock tilted his head, pulling the mobile closer to him as he looked. "Get someone here for John, now." He disappeared to the bedroom and could be heard rifling through his wardrobe and drawers. Minutes later Sherlock emerged looking like _Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective_. He crossed the room and crouched in front of John. "John... I have to go and find out what the hell is going on with this Moriarty business. I watched that man die on a rooftop just before I convinced you and all of London I had plummeted to my death. You listen to me. I am having the best help brought in for you... I need you, John. I need you more than anyone else on this Earth, my brilliant conductor of light."

Mycroft heard the car door shut before the lower entrance to Baker Street swung open. Lestrade had arrived. Mycroft watched Sherlock say his goodbyes to John, holding out a hand to still the DI when he appeared at the door. 

John slowly lowered the blanket from his face, staring at Sherlock for a moment before swallowing hard and looking away. "Okay," he breathed, turning back as he had been that morning, face to the back of the sofa and knees drawn up to his chest, just floating in the misery of it all. What was there for him to say? 

Greg shifted where he stood, looking between Sherlock and Mycroft, clearly having expected John to have already been sorted before he'd come to collect Sherlock. The scene was still incredibly fresh, Sherlock would want at it. 

Sherlock dropped a hand to the back of John's head, trailing his hand through the hair there before moving to his feet and pointing at Mycroft. "The _best_. End of discussion." He donned the Belstaff with no small amount of flourish and his eyes moved to Greg. "Scene. Now." Sherlock barked while he brushed past Greg, taking the stairs at his usual pace.

Mycroft watched Sherlock rush out of the flat with genuine relief. He inhaled deeply and looked to John before moving to sit in Sherlock's chair. 

"John… I'd like to speak with you concerning your options."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can follow Amphi at [Amphigoriously](http://amphigoriously.tumblr.com) and Symphony at [DemonicSymphony](http://demonicsymphony.tumblr.com) over on tumblr.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is a saint and Sally is surprisingly supportive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks to [Vilestrumpet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vilestrumpet) for her beta and Britpicking.

Once Sherlock was settled in the car, Greg started talking in an animated manner to him. "Birds are still warm, for God's sake. I don't know how this isn't him, to be honest. It's- well, hell, I don't know any other way to see it but it being him. I know you saw what you saw, but John's a sodding doctor and he watched you die, too. Maybe you were under too much stress?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I watched it, Lestrade. This wasn't a simple pulse trick with a squash ball. Brain matter, the smell of hot blood and ozone." His face did that thing where his nose crinkled up. "No, the man we knew as James Moriarty is dead. Somehow this is a trick... but of someone close to him."

He was near vibrating in his seat. "It’s absolutely fascinating. What kind of person would go to these lengths for a dead criminal?"

Greg wasn't going to attempt to answer that one, having no clue of his own. He drove them the twenty minutes to the scene, to a high-end paper store situated dead center of a very well kept shopping strip. The entire area was roped off, with several units on scene. 

They walked up without a word from anyone, all the Yarders quiet out of respect, fear, or suspicion… or all mixed in equal measure. Lestrade ignored them, walking Sherlock past the yellow tape. 

"I also forgot to mention, it's a locked door for you. This was sealed up as normal, the alarm was manually tripped when the deed was done, there's a bloody glove print on the panic button. Wanted us to find it fresh." 

Sherlock hummed at that, "I need John, but you'll have to do. Try not to be stupid." There was a look in Sherlock's eyes when he met Greg's though, something just beneath the surface. Gratitude and a need for normality, the bickering, the snark. It was gone in the next moment as he stepped into the shop.

He pulled on gloves as he headed straight for the pile of doves. "Interesting that he would use a symbol of peace to declare war."

Greg followed Sherlock, hands in his pockets. "We bagged a single dove, one that was here," he tapped his foot to the taped 'X" just in front of the pile. Many birds lay scattered around the bulk of it just as the 'X' had been, "sent it to the lab while it was still fresh. No broken bones, no blood on any of the birds save the ones touching the crown. Otherwise the scene is undisturbed." 

Sherlock turned in a slow circle as he took in the hundreds of IOUs placed around the room. "Thank you." The words were spoken in an absent way as his brain filed through everything. Doves, crown, IOU. "I fell. He owed me a fall... Now I'm owed... what? Retribution for him taking his own life? Call my brother. Call him now. Tell him I want guards for John at all times. He is not to be left where someone can get to him."

The connections exploded through his brain. "This is not Jim... This is someone close to him. Jim would have called to gloat already."

Greg had to shake himself out of it as he watched Sherlock work, relieved to see _Sherlock_ standing there, commanding a scene, mind working again. He dialed up Mycroft, his brows knitting as he answered from inside a car, with the windows down from the sound of it. 

"Sherlock wants guards on John, is worried of retaliation, I'll call when we know more." He had to pinch his ear closed to hear Mycroft's reply, asking him twice to clarify before nodding and ringing off. 

"Yeah, he's on it, Sherlock." 

Sherlock closed his eyes and a smirking Jim met him in his palace. 

“Hello, Sherlock… I did try to warn you.” Jim’s voice was sing-song as he stood with his hands behind his back.

“What is this about? Obviously someone wants me harmed for the situation _you_ wrought. But why? Who could be that close to you? I didn’t think you-” His eyes narrowed at the figure in front of him. “You have people closer to you than you ever let on. Did you get yourself a live-in pet then?”

Jim’s answer was a suggestive grin and Sherlock opened his eyes with a sharp gasp.

“I want everything there is on Moriarty’s empire. The big players who went underground, paying close attention to people we were able to find who worked directly with him.”

Donovan was already on it. She began to speak before Greg could. "That's easy enough, I've compiled a database over the last year with close focus on his ties to the criminal empire. We can start there, I'll have it sent to your inbox, but it's quite large." She'd been working on the project as soon as it became clear that they'd made a horrific mistake where Sherlock was concerned. It had been part of a massive book project she planned to write in an effort to clear his name. 

Sherlock's head tilted, eyes narrowing as he took her in. Anderson and she were quits for good, as evidenced by Anderson's constant companion of that wife of his last year and Donovan looked well. He caught sight of a few short blonde hairs on her jacket. "He suits you. The blonde. You look well, Sally. An email would be perfect. I would like your personal insight into the database though. Lestrade, is there a conference room we can have? And I'll need my tablet from Baker Street."

He exited at the front of the shop, looking around. His eyes landed on a likely spot someone could be watching from and he nodded his head, giving a little wave.

Greg piled into the car with Sherlock, taking them straight to NSY without delay. He glanced over at Sherlock then, pulling out of the lot. "Can we get you something to eat. I know you've that- policy if yours, but you should make an exception given the circumstances. You… how are you holding up?"

Sherlock looked over to Greg his shoulder falling as he let himself rest back against the seat. "I'm so far down if I don't eat it will slow me down. Tom Yum Gai, light but sustaining. But not the Thai you lot normally order from. That place is terrible. There's one two streets over, much better, you idiots would do well to start supporting it instead."

He fell silent for a moment. When he spoke again it was in a much more subdued manner. "I miss her. I miss the complaining about Elizabeth kicking, I miss her nagging me to budge off the sofa for more than five minutes and clean up my mess... but most of all, and perhaps this is horrible of me, I miss John." There was a sharp nod from him and he cleared his throat.

Greg drove in silence for a while longer, taking Sherlock in the direction of the food he'd requested. "He'll come 'round, Sherlock. He will. John is resilient. He's just… had a lot on. This would be hard for any man to take even were it to happen when he was charged up and well off. He'll come back, don't doubt it." 

He looked over at Sherlock before turning a corner, giving him an honest look of understanding before pulling into the lot where the Thai place was. 

Mycroft Holmes was standing in front of the door, smiling, calm as ever, umbrella resting on the ground between his feet. "How the hell does he do that?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "He's likely got your car bugged. He likes to keep an eye on you." With that tidbit Sherlock slid from the car and moved toward Mycroft. "You and that umbrella, when are you going to put a ring on it, Mycroft? It might get jealous of Lestrade if you don't. Tell me everything."

The tendency Sherlock had to throw himself headlong into his cases (to the exclusion of all else) was something Mycroft was grateful for today. He smiled at the little quip and tapped the umbrella on the ground before pushing the door open. "I've ordered already, come, let's eat and discuss." 

Sherlock scowled at him. "Is John safe? I was going to eat at the Yard. Why do you even want to have lunch with me? We never do this." He did not stop though, continuing his small tirade as he moved into the small restaurant and held the door for Mycroft.

Mycroft led them to a table that he knew Sherlock tended to favor in the back, where food was already waiting. "John is in no physical danger, Sherlock. I received your message loud and clear. Now, I'm having lunch with you as your mothering elder sibling, in light of recent events and your need of food. Eat, and then we will discuss what I know."

Greg sat down, tucking into his food without pause, letting the brothers talk.

Sherlock watched them for a moment before picking at the pad Thai Mycroft had ordered. "Where is my soup? This is too heavy." A woman arrived with the soup and he scowled, affronted that Mycroft had got it right.

Mycroft watched as Sherlock ate his food, already constructing which information to feed him, and which to keep at bay. He had no interest in worrying Sherlock over John. That situation would be explosive enough. 

"Nothing remarkable came back from the labs. The dove has not been helpful. Incisions were intentionally inflicted post-mortem on those that were touching the crown. We have eyes out for Sebastian Moran, though he's been silent since Moriarty died. While you have been caring for John, twice more the networks have been overtaken with messages. The first, Moriarty sat in front of the camera and read The Raven, and the second, he recounted his method for the Not Guilty verdict. Quite helpful for your image, at the least." 

Sherlock thought over things and ate without paying attention. No doubt it had been Mycroft's intention... Provoking Sherlock’s nature to do something on auto-pilot while his mind was otherwise occupied. The detective finished his soup before moving to the Pad Thai. 

"This is personal. Exceedingly so. He used a symbol of peace to declare war. It's above Moran's head... though he's smart, he's not that good, not in things like this. I need more information, need- something. I need to watch the videos. In the best format you have."

Mycroft reached into his coat and produced John's tablet, the videos already queued up in order. "The Raven is likely the more useful. It is six minutes, twenty three seconds. The second, where he is all but bragging, is fourteen minutes long and there is very little I could find remarkable." Mycroft scattered the metaphorical crumbs and affixed the case on the end of a stick, running Sherlock after it, trying to keep him focused.

Sherlock hit play and was engrossed for the next twenty-six minutes, stopping and backing up the videos to listen to something again. "That's not James Moriarty." He shook his head. "The pitch of his voice is wrong, he moves differently... But it's enough to fool even me at first blush. What do we know about where these came from?"

_Everything._

"They sourced from London. Were recorded here. Are being broadcast in the same way he's always done." All truths. Mycroft was leaned back, the plates already cleared away, looking on as Sherlock watched the tapes. "I suspect the crime scene will tell you more than much else, though you are of course welcome to your own methods." 

Mycroft nodded then, glad that he had Sherlock's focus hooked into the case. "I will leave the pair of you to it, you know how to reach me if necessary. Will likely be at the office most of the evening."

Sherlock looked up. "Where is John? Whoever is behind this could be after him. For God's sake look at him though." He hit play again. "That's not the man who shot himself on the roof."

Mycroft nodded, "I had my doubts as well. No, it is not James Moriarty, though it appears familial. Too many genetic traits the same, the dimple there and the brow-line here," he added, touching the image, "I watched that man's autopsy myself, just to be sure. There was no deception, it was him." He leaned back then and looked to Sherlock. "John, as I've said, is in no danger, Sherlock. He's being cared for by the very best, and he's in no physical danger." 

Sherlock stared at the screen. "Familial, no sign of plastic surgeries. Brother. The likelihood of James Moriarty having a _brother_ who looks this much like him is close to nil." His eyes met his own brother's. "James Moriarty had a twin. I want everything on his birth and childhood you have been able to piece together."

Mycroft's eyebrows rose. "Ah, well that is rather difficult, as there is exactly nothing to be found prior to the age of twenty five. Quite difficult, that. I have exhausted my abilities as far as that is concerned. If he has a twin, then he has gone to extreme pains to keep that fact concealed.

Sherlock stared at his older brother. "Then _what_ is the use of you!?" He stood, toting the tablet with him, muttering under his breath about being surrounded by idiots. "Why doves? The crown was obvious..." Sherlock continued thinking aloud as he tried to get into Lestrade's locked car. He rolled his eyes and looked up at the restaurant.

Mycroft slid Greg a card with handwritten information on it, nodding to him. "If he gets out of hand, I'll deal with it." 

Greg looked down at the familiar handwriting, so similar to Sherlock's, as the elder brother got up and swept out, loading into his own car. 

_St. Joseph's psychiatric care, room 430._

Greg dragged a hand over his face as he read the information once more, folding the paper and sliding it into his pocket. His mobile buzzed as he walked out and opened the car for Sherlock. 

_Let him work the case as long as is possible before he sees that. John's grief is very negatively affecting my brother._

Greg cleared his throat after reading the text, a flash of anger for his friend churning in his gut. He sat down behind the wheel and took a moment to think, not at all pleased with any of it. Sherlock had been improved though, in a noticeable way, with work. He needed help on the case. John would not have gone anywhere he did not want to. Surely... 

"The Yard, then?"

Sherlock hummed in agreement as he watched the man on the screen with a careful eye. "I don't understand? How can Mycroft not know. Mycroft knows _everything_." His tone was irritated. "I'm missing something. Something important."

Greg had no damn idea, shrugging as he backed out of the car park and began the short drive to the Yard. 

Sally was already there, her Redweld out with notes and everything she'd gathered on Moriarty's network, interspersed with Sherlock's own case notes and findings. The file was organized, and massive. It had been her penance, and she'd taken it quite seriously.

Sherlock dove into the case files and Sally's massive undertaking. He even complimented Sally's database at one point. He was silent for almost an entire hour before he snarled, "But why doves? Why not a member of the corvidae family? That would have been much more suiting!"

Sally arched a brow and looked up from her work. "Moriarty wore a magpie pin, yes? Magpie stamp and all that. Wouldn't this fellow see members of the corvidae family insulting to Moriarty, not to you? He was always on about that light and darkness thing, wasn't he? Could be heavy handed with the symbolism. Moriarty was much more subtle than most." 

Sherlock sucked in a breath as he looked up at Sally and arched a brow. “Sergeant Donovan, whatever you’ve been doing as of late, please keep doing it ." That made perfect sense. "Angels and demons. Doves are a sign of the holy spirit, of all things good and light. On the roof Moriarty said 'You're ordinary... You're on the side of the angels.' I wonder who heard him. There was a call he ignored, I thought he ignored. He might have answered it and slipped the phone back in his pocket." Sherlock mused as he sat there.

Sally smiled to him and Greg grinned. "She spotted an ATM that had a pinhole camera facing just that way. Trouble is, the caller is across the street and the image is grainy. Too fuzzy to even tell gender or skin color. Can get an approximate height, which is close to James Moriarty's-" Sally cut him off, "Closer to John Watson's," she added without anything else. "that's about it."

 _John._ Sherlock reached for his phone and sent a text to John's hoping for a response. 

_Tracking this Moriarty impostor, possibly his twin. Need my conductor of light. SH_

Sherlock sat there for a moment before opening his blog and typing up a message and posting it

_The same DNA, but not the same voice. I told him not to mistake me for an angel. You would be wise to heed the same advice._

Greg watched Sherlock type, wondering what exactly he hoped to accomplish. 

Across London, Mycroft watched the message appear on the blog, exhaling in slow relief. 

There was a sudden knock on the conference room door and a tech walked in, carrying a bag. He set the little thing down in front of Greg and tapped it before walking out. "Found what killed your birds." 

In front of Greg sat, in bloody casing, a smattering of samples taken from the bellies of the birds. Greg picked it up and squinted at the label, whispering under his breath, "Well I'll be… they're apple seeds." 

Sherlock's head snapped up. "Pips, more bloody pips. Apple seeds can, in the right circumstances produce cyanide poisoning." The tall man rose and began to pace the room. "Video, theatricality, pips... but no direct contact yet. It doesn't make sense."

"Pips?" Greg shook his head, staring at Sherlock, "that's a lot of bloody pips, if they've all got em in their bellies. If that's the case, isn't this just some… I don't know… bored copycat? Public's only been aware of your survival for what? Less than a year. Could have heard the news and jumped on the chance to mimic the master." 

"It doesn't explain the twin!" Sherlock snapped. A hand went through his curls and he snarled, "I am _missing something_!"

Greg ran a hand over his head. "Well alright, yeah, calm down. You've only been on this what?" He turned his wrist, checking his watch, "six hours, Sherlock. It's alright not to have it all bang up solved straight away. The twin business, are you lot sure it's not prosthetics or camera tricks?"

Sherlock stopped and threw himself back into the chair. A finger stabbed the play button again as he stared at the tablet. He searched the face, the lighting, everything. Sherlock did not move as he watched, body still while his brain took in everything.

Greg leaned over to Sally and spoke quietly. "How about you find him some dinner, yeah? Been a while since he's had a bite and it may help. Something light, he's not- yeah just, you know flu food or what have you." 

He looked back to Sherlock as Sally quietly got up, markedly choosing not to make a fuss, slipping out of the room.

Sherlock shook his head as he came up twenty minutes later. "I cannot tell if it is a prosthesis or makeup... I don't know how high quality the video is..." He closed his eyes. "I need John."

Greg floundered for a moment before trying to do as Mycroft instructed, not sure what to make of the situation. "I'm sure he'll come round soon enough. Sally is getting us a bite to eat, why don't you take a break? Here, come have a smoke with me, we'll not tell Mycroft." 

Sherlock let a grin cross his face at the thought of a smoke. "Yeah... a smoke then." He pushed to his feet. "Though the bastard was smoking with me at Mummy's, so it's not as though he can say much." Sherlock followed Greg out to a hidden corner where someone had set up an ashtray. 

When they'd lit their cigarettes Sherlock took in a deep breath. "I delete it... Your first name. I don't know why. It gets swept up in detritus in my head and dumped out. You're always Lestrade." He cleared his throat.

Greg laughed then, not having expected that out of all the topics. "It's Greg, but Lestrade is fine, I'm quite used to it after the years." He shook his head, exhaling a lungful of smoke. Guilt slipped around his mind and he just couldn't settle what Mycroft had told him with the person he was sharing a smoke with. He decided to fish for a bit while allowing Sherlock to at least enjoy the cigarette. "So ah, how's… how's John been?" 

Sherlock failed to school his face when the pain came. The guilt of it all washed through him. For a few moments Sherlock looked haggard and worn to a nub. His voice was hoarse, "Awful. Greg," He used the name while he could, to make a point. "It's horrible. He wasn't speaking to me at all, wouldn't eat..." There was a small shake of his head. "We didn't get out of bed at all yesterday... I couldn't even bring myself to move until Mycroft barked at John in a threatening tone. Nearly took the idiot's head off."

 _Right_. Well, that made a bit more sense then. Mycroft, as Greg had understood it, had grown quite… fond? Was that a thing he was even capable of? Well, whatever the term, he was closer to John than he'd ever been before, and it surprised him to no end that Mycroft would do something underhand where John was concerned. 

He nodded in empathy to Sherlock, seeing now why Mycroft was so desperate to have him working. "He's just had a tough few years. Likely all catching up to him at once, this one was too big to push down. Happened when, well, and he pulled out of it then too. I know it's not the same but, proper bit of rest and time, and he'll… he'll improve, Sherlock. He will." 

Sherlock nodded as he drew in a lungful of smoke. "I should hope so. John Watson is made of sterner stuff than you and I." He let the smoke out with a sigh. "How much has Mycroft told you? About all of this?"

Greg frowned, not entirely understanding. "What, the case? Hardly anything, been very tight lipped and difficult to reach." 

Sherlock arched a brow, "Mycroft has been tight lipped and difficult to reach over a case he practically dragged me out of Baker Street for?"

Greg shrugged. "Took him a few days to get us MI6 intel on the mass-feeds through London, not that MI6 owes us feeds but Mycroft asked specifically for us to put this as top priority, even with MI6 on it. Thought that was a bit dodgy but it's Mycroft, learned a long time ago just to leave it, smile, and nod." 

Sherlock’s mobile was in his hand, cigarette between his lips. Fingers flew across the screen in irritation.

_What are you playing at, Brother Mine? SH_

Mycroft read the text and then leaned to the side, calling up a live screen and checking the guest log. He'd not been told about John then, so he'd puzzled out Mycroft's involvement a touch faster than he'd been expecting. 

The encouragement from that was akin to bliss. 

_I'm sure I've no idea what you're referring to, Sherlock. MH_

_Why make this case a priority with Lestrade's team? Were you afraid I wouldn't come otherwise? SH_

Something was amiss, but there was something _wrong_ with the entire situation. Sherlock was having trouble sorting what was going on. His brain didn't want to function within normal parameters and it was driving him mad.

Mycroft considered Sherlock's question with care, trying to assess his mental state from the confusion. He was circling, though Mycroft had intentionally made the truth of the matter near impossible for Sherlock to discover on his own. Still though, Sherlock had not caught all of what he'd fed him thus far, and that was just fine. He was trying, and with that attempt came focus. 

_London is in a panic. It keeps the people calm to see a familiar D.I. assuring them the situation is being handled. MH_

Sherlock snorted at the text, pitched the cigarette butt in the ashtray and looked up to Greg. "One more before we sneak back in?"

_Then cease hedging with Lestrade's team. Ridiculous. Pips, they were killed by pips, on the side of the angels. What the bloody hell is going on in London, Mycroft? SH_

Greg handed over a second cigarette without a word and watched as Sherlock texted with Mycroft. 

_I've not been hedging. Bureaucracy takes quite a long time, unfortunately. Lestrade has his information as timely as is possible. It is, I believe, your job to figure out what is happening in London. MH_

_Piss off. SH_

Sherlock growled as he leaned in to the light and took a sharp pull of the cigarette. "Bloody arse. He's hedging."

Greg looked up then and suddenly spilled. "Sherlock, John's..." he shook his head and shoved his hand into his pocket, explaining as he offered the note Mycroft had given him. "I… I don't know if I should have said something sooner or-" he shut himself up, feeling as though he'd been complacent in keeping information that should not have been from Sherlock. 

Sherlock stared at the note. There was no movement or reaction from him for nearly a full minute. He snarled as he crumpled the note, his finger hitting dial on his phone as he took in a lungful of smoke. 

_Mycroft._

"Brother, I've told you I've given Lestrade all he needs for his case and you more than that. When I have information, I will share it," Mycroft said as he pecked at the keys, still to that day playing catch-up on work he'd missed at Sherlock's bedside. 

The string of cursing in French he let out had such undeniable _rage_ behind it, he caught Greg take a step back out of the corner of his eye. It was soon followed by more heated French. "You put him in psychiatric care!?" Sherlock was all but snarling at Mycroft as he smoked the cigarette. "Is this all a contrivance on your part, Mycroft? It's certainly beginning to _look_ that way."

Mycroft waited for a natural pause in Sherlock's ravings before speaking. "You demanded that I acquire for him the very best care, of which he is now the beneficiary. He gave no resistance. Sherlock, his grief was dangerous to you. I very deeply encourage patience, brother. Surely in time things will correct themselves."

Sherlock seethed at Mycroft. "How dare you presume to know what is best for me." Mycroft was correct, of course, despite Sherlock’s rantings. "I want everything you have. Mycroft. _Everything_ or I walk away from the case right now. You're hedging. I'm not the idiot you believe me to be. You have approximately thirty seconds to explain to me _without threatening John_ why I should continue."

Mycroft could tell him many times over, but started with the simplest, "You will continue because I left a man broken at hospital -who is quite sure you're done with him- with assurances that you'd be around later tonight to see him. I've secured your freedom with promises of your help with Moriarty. If you find yourself incarcerated, I'm very sorry to say that I will not contact him to make him aware of this." 

Sherlock would lose it in jail. He had flashbacks enough at Baker Street. His mind would snap in prison, and Mycroft would stop at _nothing_ to keep him free. 

Sherlock's teeth ground loud enough he was sure Mycroft could hear them. "It's not James Moriarty, it's his twin and he is taunting me. _And I can't work it out_!" There was an edge of desperation to Sherlock's tone. " _You're_ the smart one."

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and took in a slow, deep breath. "Sherlock, you're exhausted. Go to see John or go home. Rest. Go back tomorrow and work on it again fresh." 

" _You_ put me on this. Either I work on it or I don't." Sherlock was pacing, gesturing with the cigarette. "This is ridiculous. Owes me what? Pips, IOUs, the crown, the doves... it's as though he gathered everything and just dumped it at me."

Mycroft sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, "Sherlock, I did not expect you to solve it in one single day. You are looking at this from the wrong angle. You need to sleep. You've taken it all at face value, when I suspect it's a deeper meaning than that." 

Sherlock stopped pacing and leaned against the wall, voice hoarse. "I need John. I'm not like you, Mycroft... I can't do this on my own anymore."

Mycroft knew full well that truth. "Go, brother. You've put in plenty of facetime at the Yard today, visit John and rest." 

Greg swore under his breath as he watched Sherlock, loathing that both he and John were in such distress. 

"I'll visit him in an hour." Sherlock let out a slow breath. "If you have any insights... I would implore you to share them with me, Mycroft."

Mycroft drew in another full breath before speaking softly. "Moriarty was the mastermind, but there is an artist in the family. Eat, Sherlock, and please do rest. If it would be better for you not to see John, I'll get a message to him to settle for the night. All I am interested in is your well being at present." 

"No, not seeing John will do more harm than good. I will mull that over before going to see him and then- I suppose I'll go to Baker Street." Sherlock chucked the butt in the ashtray and started, in a somewhat numb state, toward the entrance and back to the conference room.

Mycroft spoke swiftly before his sibling rang off, "You are welcome to sleep at the hospital, I've secured permissions. Mark has been in to see him already. Of course if you'd rather sleep at home, that is perfectly fine. John is not aware of your privileges." 

Greg followed Sherlock, lightly touching his arm in an effort to show him support as he walked at his side. Already the conference room smelled of stew from the splendid deli across the way. 

There was a small noise of relief from Sherlock and he was quiet when he thanked Mycroft and rang off. Sherlock looked to Greg, nodding his relief as he sat down at the table, pulling the stew to him. "So far we have a pile of dead doves in a shop with a crown and IOUs everywhere... High end paper shop, Mycroft said something about an artist." He shook his head and took a bite of the stew. His bloody mind palace was locked. It only happened when he was exhausted and needed rest. Wonderful.

Greg shook his head and Sally tore off a bit of bread and handed it over to Sherlock to dip in his stew. "Let it rest, Sherlock, you look ready to fall over. The morning will be better, once you've had a sleep."

They carried on eating in relative silence, Greg keeping close watch on Sherlock. "Would you like a lift?"

"Stop by Baker Street so I can get clothing for tomorrow. Please, yes." The day had worn on Sherlock horribly and it was obvious he was about to fall out on them. He carried on eating in a numb manner, though his body was thanking him.

Greg huffed at the text that rumbled through his mobile. "You're alright, he's had a bag sent on for you. Just eat, Sherlock, I'll take you when you're ready." 

Sherlock finished the meal in silence and turned to Sally, gratitude in his face for a moment. He pushed away from the table. "Yeah, I'm- yeah, let's go?"

She looked at him in honest surprise to see such an expression on Sherlock's face before nodding, watching as Greg helped him up. "Alright, come on then." 

St. Joseph's was not too far, and the facility was well kept and warmly lit. Greg stopped the car just outside the main entrance. "I'll come in with you, if you'd like." 

Sherlock considered it. "Just in case he throws me out..." He had no idea how John would react to seeing him after he'd run off on a case.

Greg parked the car and got out, walking around beside Sherlock. He had no idea if the men had fought, or what had led to the surprising situation of John in hospital without Sherlock knowing. He wasn’t going to ask, either.

At the main entrance, Sherlock's name easily opened doors, and within five minutes time they were moving up to John's floor. For Greg, it was extremely difficult to believe that John could be a sodding patient within the walls that housed vacant addicts and the completely insane.

John's floor was mostly quiet. Dinner was ending and the few patients still puttering about were subdued with downcast eyes.

A nurse in the floor guided them to a room at the far end of the hall. She knocked lightly and opened the door, stepping aside to let Sherlock in. John was on his bed, dressed in white as everyone else, head hung and silent.

Sherlock crouched in front of John and looked up at him. "John?" He reached up and touched his jaw. "Hello. I missed you. Not the same working a case without you by my side." His voice was steady despite how he was screaming inside at seeing John like this.

Greg leaned back against the wall, nodding to the nurse as she walked away. John, for a long while, looked as though he wasn't going to react at all to them. Greg was not looking forward to driving Sherlock away from here without him. 

John drew in a deep, slow breath as Sherlock touched his face, eyes slowly focusing on him. He blinked and then looked to the clock before looking back to Sherlock. 

_John, let's discuss your options._

In the end, Mycroft had made clear the damage being done to Sherlock, and John had allowed them to maneuver him to a car and take him to hospital. He'd been stripped and drugged, put into a shower for a washup, fed soup with no option of not finishing, and once shown his room refused to move or speak to anyone other than Mark. 

"Why are you here?" He breathed the question, hardly daring to give it voice at all, fingers curling in the bedding tight enough to blanch his knuckles as he stared at Sherlock's exhausted face.

Sherlock looked as though he'd been struck by those words for a moment before he drew in a soft breath and answered. "I am here because I love you. Don't be an idiot, it's unbecoming. I've come to spend the night. If you'll have me. I didn't- I just wanted someone to stay with you at the flat. I didn't know about this."

Greg narrowed his eyes, not particularly understanding what was going on with John. He stuck his head back out of the door, catching the nurse. 

"Hey, has he been given anything?" He asked quietly, pointing back into John's room. She nodded as she flipped the chart open, taking a moment to glance up at the clock before looking back to him, "He should still be feeling it, is he upset? Should still be calm." 

John carried on staring at Sherlock in confusion, looking to the door and then back to Sherlock himself, openly confused. "But," he whispered absently, trying to put it all together, shaking his head slightly in an effort to think. He looked to the door and then to the ceiling before dropping his eyes to the floor, dragging them to his hands in his lap before carrying on the confused thought. "but… I-I'm… hurting… hurting you? Yeah, I'm..." he pressed a hand lightly to his temple, closing his eyes as he tried to put the fuzzy parts of the day together. 

Sherlock moved up to his feet and wrapped his arms around John. He tipped his head to John's. "I am unable to care for you and support you like I should. I am too close to the situation. The work- it's my way of working through things. You need help outside of what I can give you, but that does not mean I am not going to still be here for you."

He rubbed John's back in gentle strokes. "I'll have to go back to the case in the morning, but- if you want me here, I've come to stay the night with you. Mycroft has pulled whatever strings he's capable of for me to do so. Have they given you something?"

Greg leaned against the wall once he was done speaking with the nurse, listening to Sherlock and John. He flinched as Sherlock spoke, wondering how John was going to take that. "Sherlock, I'm going to wait down the hall," he whispered before simply walking away, not wanting to watch any longer. He'd not seen John looking as he did, since the day he'd joined them all in a meeting to discuss pulling Sherlock from life support. 

John kept his eyes to his hands, using the fingers of one hand to trace the lines of the other. He followed the same pattern again and again, eyes slowly blurring, shoulders slowly rounding down in defeat. "You won't… get any r-rest here. Just… go and take care of yourself. These… these people will… yeah, they'll look after me." 

Sherlock made a pained sound at that. "You're sending me away?" He was reeling as he drew himself up and looked down at John. "I-" There was a shake of his head as his chest seized up. "Don't send me away, John..."

John carried on tracing the lines of his hand, each pass rougher than the one before it. He turned his eyes up slowly towards Sherlock, red-rimmed and shining, clearly fighting back tears. "I… no you can… you don't have to stay, but you don't have to leave. I'm… sent me away because I'm hurting you." He dropped his eyes back to his hands as he lost the effort to keep himself together, shoulders slumped as tears trailed down his face. 

_I'd not be able to do the same, if it were you._

The context was wrong, but the meaning true all the same. At least to John, steeped so heavy in grief that he could not properly reason with himself. 

"I'm too much. You don't have to stay. I understand." 

"I did not send you away." Sherlock was out of the Belstaff, his suit jacket, and his shoes before anything else could be said. He climbed into the narrow bed and drew John to him. "Come here, John. I didn't send you away. I didn't know. We both need help the other is incapable of giving. You have given until you have nothing left and I am- hopelessly useless when it comes to things of this nature."

He tucked his face against the top of John's head. "Rest with me. Just rest with me and tomorrow we will get up and we will continue to heal in the ways that we need to. Tomorrow night, I will come back and we will do it all over again until we are back on our feet."

John allowed Sherlock to pull him down to his side, staring at the white wall across from him. He said nothing, made no move towards or away from Sherlock as tears slid down his face. 

When a half hour had passed without word from Sherlock or John, Greg decided it would be alright to leave. He went to the car and grabbed Sherlock's bag, running it back up to the nurses station, where they kept it behind the counter for the safety of their patients. 

It was torture. John like this was utter hell. Sherlock was a sort of worried he'd never been about anyone else and it made him near sick. He just held John close to him, eyes closed. Sherlock found himself near praying for the first time since he'd been very young.

John drifted off to sleep not long after, only moving enough to wrap his fingers in the material of Sherlock's shirt. The heavy medication kept him from dreaming or otherwise moving, and he simply lay there as the hours ticked by. 

Mycroft was made aware that Sherlock was staying the night at hospital with John, and therefore had a car waiting for him by eight the next morning. He sent as gentle of a text as he knew how. 

_You've a car waiting. Feel free to stop at Baker Street to prepare for the day, if necessary. Greg and his team are expecting you by half nine. MH_

Sherlock had slept better than he felt he should have. The text made him groan and he pressed a kiss to John's forehead. "I have to go. Work calls, proper bloody schedule and all." He untangled himself from John with gentle movements. There was a small groan from him as he stretched. "I'll be back this evening."

He returned the text as he stood there.

_It is appreciated. I will run through my ablutions at Baker Street and then go to the Yard. SH_

John opened his eyes but otherwise did not move. He took in the room slowly before focusing on Sherlock, watching him dress to leave. 

A nurse came in, smiling, carrying a small paper cup with pills and another cup of water. "Good morning, John! I've your medicine, and then you will eat breakfast out with the group." 

Still John did not move, simply closing his eyes again, willing the damned woman to leave. He wrapped his arms tight around his chest, drew his knees up slightly, and tried to breathe through the damn burn of tears. 

Sherlock moved to John's side. "Come on. Up with you. Go and have breakfast. Even I am going to eat. You'll be pleased to know even Sally Donovan is making sure I eat. You need food too." He glanced to the nurse.

John pulled back from Sherlock, nearly unseating himself from the bed. In a fit of anger he tossed the pillow across the room as he got to his feet, looking down at himself and feeling like a complete idiot in the white, draw-string free scrubs they made them all wear. 

"Just _go_ ," he shouted, losing a single tear that tracked down his face, standing with his back to the corner with his hands shaking. 

The nurse stepped forward, keeping the same infuriating, sugar-sweet tone. "If you'll just take your pills, you'll feel much be-" 

John cut her off, furious. "Feel better will I? Piss off, get _out_!"

"Oh for god's sake a bloody _pill_ is not going to _fix_ him. This isn't something you _fix_. It's something you help him get through." Sherlock was seething and stung from John's words. But this was _something_. Anger was better than the detachment he'd been faced with.

John stared at Sherlock for a moment, so deeply cut by his words that he could hardly breathe. He raked his hands through his hair and closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall. 

_Have you ever even changed a nappy, John? You'll get plenty of time in for cuddles and that, but there will be nappies and spitting up, all of that as well._

Why that thought had crossed his mind in that moment, he did not know, but he should be home cuddling a baby and not tossed away here, locked up out of the way, medicated and put in chairs where groups of drooling idiots could talk out their stupid fucking problems. Heart breaking, he kept his eyes pinched shut and whispered again, "Just leave me alone. Leave me alone." 

Sherlock looked back to John and shook his head. "Do you want me to come back?" It hurt, everything hurt and was _wrong_. Just wrong.

John let go of his hair to press his hands over his face, his heart beating in his throat. "If you're looking for permission to just… it's fine. It's all fine. You do what you need to do, Sherlock. Always have." If Sherlock wanted to leave and not return, what the hell was there for John to do about it? Likely better that way for everyone. He could hardly breathe around the ache in his chest, doing his best to keep himself quiet. 

"No, fuck you for thinking that of me. How dare you. I am going to walk out of here now and if you don't have me barred from hospital. I'll be back this evening and you and I are going to _talk_ without..." he waved a hand in a wild gesture, "this..."

Sherlock swung his Belstaff on, jamming his hands down into his pockets. "You are _everything_ to me, John. I'll see you this evening." It was everything he had in him to turn around and stalk to the door. 

John screamed into his hands as Sherlock walked out, crouching down where he stood, pulling at his hair as his heart broke. 

\---

The driver held the door open for Sherlock, alerting Mycroft that they had picked him up and were en-route to Baker Street. Mycroft relayed the message to Mrs. Hudson, who already had a shower running hot, tea on, and was setting breakfast up for him.

Sherlock did not speak to anyone. He did not even acknowledge Mrs. Hudson. He spent long enough in the shower scrubbing and trying to wash away the feeling leaving John there had left on him that he was scrubbed raw in places. Sherlock did eventually emerge into the kitchen and ate in silence.

"He hates me." Sherlock finally said as he finished the tea she'd poured him.

She stood at the sink, turning off the taps and drying her hands. "Who dear? John? Nonsense." She shook her head and moved to Sherlock's side, sitting down diagonally from him so that their knees were touching. "I don't think John has it in him to hate you. Why would you think so?"

"He thinks I sent him there, he thinks I don't want him... and I might have said 'fuck you' and walked out this morning. Though I did say I'd be back if he didn't bar me from hospital and that he was everything to me." Sherlock looked down at the table. "I- Mrs. Hudson I have never cared for anyone or anything the way I do about John Watson and I cannot be what he needs right now but I cannot just leave him alone to suffer in silence."

She reached out and rest her fingers gently on his wrist, waiting a moment before speaking. "People deeply in love can fight ruthlessly, Sherlock. You both are under so much stress, it's only natural that tempers will come into play. John...he's not able to think clearly right now, the poor dear, and he's likely just… I imagine the future looks bleak, and he's been so very tired for such a long time. He doesn't hate you, Sherlock. He loves you, he- when you were in hospital all that time… John Watson loves you. There is no way around it."

"And I am incapable of being there for him as he was for me. What is the point of me? I am useless as an actual human being." Sherlock pushed away from the table, touching Mrs. Hudson's hand. "I have to go to work. They are expecting me. Have a wonderful day, Mrs. Hudson.” He buttoned his jacket before slipping into the Belstaff once more.

She watched him get up, worrying over both the men. When Sherlock left, she called Mycroft as was requested and told him what had happened. He thanked her and sent on a text to Greg, 

Lestrade was waiting for the car when it arrived at NSY. He already had a cigarette in hand for Sherlock, waiting to brief him. Mycroft had fed him a bit more 'new' information, so he at least had something for Sherlock to sink his teeth into. "Morning," he said as he held the door of the car open for Sherlock, passing him a smoke, "get any sleep?"

"Slept better than I had any right to." Sherlock answered truthfully as he pulled himself from the car and took the proffered smoke. He leaned in for the light, taking a deep drag off of it. "Anything new?" One hand ruffled his curls as he stood there with Greg, the car having dropped him at a side entrance.

Greg nodded, deciding to leave off. "Yeah, he used ultraviolet reactive paint at the scene, if you can believe it. I swear if you were not so certain on the familial relation, I'd really, really think we had a copycat on our hands. When you've finished your cigarette, I'll bring you in and show you." 

Sherlock nodded and stayed silent, not letting his brain turn to the case yet. The nicotine soaked into him and he pitched the butt into the ashtray. "Lead the way Lestrade."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks to [Vilestrumpet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vilestrumpet) for her beta and Britpicking and to [beltainefaerie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie) for her beta. These two have helped me keep my sanity.  
> -Symphony

Donovan was in the main conference room they'd commandeered. She had several large images of the scene up on a white board, including new ones that Mycroft had suggested they take. With ultraviolet lighting, the tower of birds was expertly painted as a man, albeit one with no face, and where the eyes should be stood the initials 'I.A.' and 'S.M.' 

Curved at the mouth was simply a string of 'JWEWMWSH' without break, the lettering elegant and carefully executed. 

"We also received this," Donovan said without greeting, handing Sherlock an evidence bag with a parchment envelope inside, stamped with a red wax seal. "Already been x-rayed, otherwise left alone. It's addressed to you." 

"Irene Adler, Sebastian Moran, John Watson, Elizabeth Watson, Mary Watson, Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock intoned as he took in the situation and the letters. The evidence bag was taken without thought as he continued to look over the pictures for another moment.

His attention slid to the bag and he snapped on gloves. He pulled out a pen knife before opening the evidence bag and popping the seal. Great care was taken to not damage the seal so he could examine it in depth. Sherlock took even, soft breaths as he opened the envelope. 

"Not only that, but have a look at this," Donovan murmured, holding up a clipping from the post not three weeks prior. The image was striking in its similarity to the crime scene. The Burren College of Art, located in Ballyvaughan, hosted an event where up and comers could showcase their art. The caption below the image read:

_An unnamed artist presents 'Mort' a work the creator says embodies the perpetual cyclical nature of existence and the shadowed possibility of karma. The birds are hand crafted from birch wood, 127 in count, the crown on loan from the local theatre. Actors have been paid to represent the slain mother, father, and child. Placed Second in the National Finals._

Inside the envelope Sherlock discovered a single parchment, smudged liberally with blood, the old English lyrics to Humpty Dumpty in the same script used on the birds at the scene. 

Sherlock stared at the piece. "127 doves at the crime scene?" He raked his eyes over everything before looking back to the parchment as he pulled it free of the envelope. "Humpty Dumpty. Any information on the actors or who paid them?"

Greg shook his head, "Not yet, we have people on it." He moved back and crossed his arms over his chest. "We've got necropsies going on each and every bird, and the parchments he used are all being analyzed. Nothing yet. If you are not here, I'll text."

"I want to know the significance of Adler and Moran in this. Their involvement doesn't make sense to me. None of this makes any damn sense." Sherlock shook his head. He found himself stumped and at a wall.

Greg leaned against the counter and watched Sherlock for a moment. He was off. Not functioning. Not even trying. 

"Does there have to be? Clearly this person knows the details of the case. Could just be a madman."

Sherlock texted Mycroft. He was still too shaken from everything.

_I have nothing. Not one thing, Mycroft. Nothing. There is nothing I can do, nothing fits. SH_

Mycroft picked up the phone and dialed Sherlock, not wanting this done over text. He needed to hear the tones in Sherlock’s voice. He closed the door to his office as the line rang. 

Sherlock drew the phone to his ear as he answered. "None of it makes sense. It's being done to deliberately provoke me." The irritation behind his words was evident. "It's just a hodgepodge of things meant to be a red flag at a bull... With me playing the unwitting bull."

Mycroft nodded and spoke directly, "Then do not brandish your horns. Your only task, brother, is to appear useful to the Crown until the attention blows over, that is all. There is no need for you to… tax yourself in this matter."

_Your loss would break my heart._

Sherlock stilled then. "Mycroft, would you like to have dinner? Preferably at your home?" 

Mycroft was startled, to say the least, by Sherlock's request. "I can make myself available, yes." 

"Very well. I've received the Humpty Dumpty nursery rhyme slathered in blood. It's all very droll." Sherlock looked up to Sally and Greg before his eyes went back to the photographs.

Mycroft quite agreed. "As I said, there was an artist in the family. I was never one for the appreciation of modern art. I find that I am in agreement with you. I will send a car at six." 

"Yes, do." Sherlock rang off without further word and started cataloging each individual piece of the current case to their respective places in former cases.

Greg spent the next few hours on his own cases, working without Donovan and Sherlock, both left in the conference room to compare notes and pick over details. Sally ended up gathering lunch for the pair of them, though they mostly remained in silence. 

Sometime in the late afternoon Greg made his way back to them, drinking his third coffee of the day and carrying one for Sherlock. He set the cup down at Sherlock's side and spoke quietly. "Any luck?"

Sherlock tilted his head. "Yes and no. We've cataloged where each individual theme in the crime came from. Personal or a case. Take the apple seeds for example. Both pips, a public case, and from Moriarty carving IOU into an apple at my flat."

Greg sat down beside Sherlock and looked over everything that he had. "Well, that's a bit… unnerving." 

"I think I have a lead. I have to discuss it with my brother. National matters and all that rot. Hence dinner this evening." Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin.

Greg's eyebrows nearly came off his face. "You're having dinner with your brother. Well. Alright. In that case, would it be alright with you if I popped over to visit with John a bit?"

Sherlock blinked, "Of course. I- yes, please. I'll be there this evening if John hasn't had me barred from the premises after this morning."

Greg looked at him as though he'd grown another head. "What the hell happened this morning that has you thinking John would have you barred from coming to see him?"

"Ah- He _might_ have inferred my asking if he wanted me back this evening was my trying to get out of some misguided sense of obligation and I _might_ have said 'fuck you' in response to it." Sherlock looked almost sheepish at the admission.

"Shit," Greg muttered under his breath, getting up swiftly, "I'm, Jesus, I'm going to go see him now. Good luck with your brother." He was out the door in the next moment, leaving Donovan and Sherlock to themselves. 

Donovan looked up from her work, studying Sherlock for a moment. "Why would you have done that this morning, then? Don't give me any of that 'bad with people,' garbage either, you're only bad with them when you don't care."

Sherlock scrubbed a hand over his face and let out a heavy sigh. "I didn't _only_ say 'fuck you'. I did go onto say he was _everything_ on this Earth to me. He- how _dare_ he say that!? I- no. I fought back every, _every_ time I could have laid down and died and been done with this... It was all for him. Always for him."

She raised her eyebrows and looked down to the paperwork in front of her, trying to get back at it for a few minutes before it got the best of her and she looked up at him. "Greg stopped him once, you know? Three nights in, found him a complete mess with his back to your headstone." She shook her head, cracking a half-smile, "it would be comically dramatic if it hadn't been you lot. John never forgave himself for failing to talk you down. He spent a few years of his life knowing that he couldn't keep his best mate from pitching off a building. Then he fell in love, and you came back, and god knows what all happened but he's spent the last six or so months relentlessly at your side while agonizing over his wife, and then last week he put her and his baby in the ground. John is not able to see straight right now, Sherlock Holmes. You've fought for him, sure, but he's done nothing but grieve you and then clutch at anyone who would love him in such desperation it's painful to watch. How dare he, indeed."

She shook her head and began writing once again, "You're brilliant, but you can be such an idiot."

Sherlock leaned in close to her. "Yeah, that wife shot me, I forgave her, moved in with them, and we all were supposed to live happily ever- bloody- after." He rose then as he slipped into his coat. "I'll be back in the morning. John's not the only one grieving."

Donovan looked up, pure shock across her face, getting to her feet along with Sherlock. "Hang on, just hang on. Are you telling me Mary Watson _shot you_?" 

She had hold of his sleeve, intentionally keeping him in place. "Sherlock, why the hell would Mary _shoot_ you?"

Sherlock swore and closed his eyes. "For God's sake, we can't talk about this here. I shouldn't have said anything. Christ." He looked back to Donovan. "Shit. I don't know if Baker Street is bugged or not. I haven't had the energy to look."

Sally shrugged as though that did not bother her one bit and began walking with him, moving out of the Yard and holding quiet until they were outside. "Does John know Mary shot you? Why did she shoot you?

Sherlock took a deep breath and then spilled it all, holding back only that Mycroft had been under Magnussen's thumb any way other than via himself. It took him a better part of half an hour to give her the extended run-down, stopping once to buy his own packet of cigarettes in his favorite brand. They wound up in a park and he gazed at her.

"And the other reason I told him that this morning is because anything, _anything_ from John right now is better than the complete detachment he's shown the past several days."

She sat on one of the swings, trailing her toe in the dirt below, trying to digest it all. "Well. John's head over heels for you, that's clear. Bloke sodding loves you to his death and back. You clearly love him, despite all evidence pointing to your lack of heart." She shook her head and pushed back a bit, allowing herself to swing gently. 

"Anger helps, yeah. I agree with you. I don't know, Sherlock, it's just a lot for both of you, and a hell of a lot for him. I mean, he's locked in with the mentals, you're angry, he's more afraid of being alone than anyone I've ever met, and yet he constantly forced himself to be. Sounds like he's scared, Sherlock. That sounds like something a fearful man would say."

"I did not put him there. I had not one clue that's what my brother would do. I asked him to put someone in Baker- I have to go. I- John needs to be with me and if that means I have to drag him along on this bloody case I will." Sherlock stood from the swing and ran a hand through his curls. "And I've been reliably informed I do not have a heart. I don't. God knows I don't... But whatever I've got, John Watson has. I have to go. I can't leave him in there."

Sally was on her feet properly again, "Wait, Sherlock. Jesus just wait. You can't possibly be thinking of involving John on a case with his family's initials painted on a pile of dead birds. Slow down. Go have dinner with your brother, let Greg visit with John. I never said being in hospital was the wrong thing for John." She shook her head and walked much closer to him than she typically ever did. 

"And cut the rubbish about your heart. You've been in agony with John over all this business for far too long to plead psychopath any longer. Don't do that, you look a bit of an idiot. Stop for a minute and calm down. You cannot make snap judgements here."

Sherlock shoved his hands in the pockets of the Belstaff and he scowled at her for being right. His mouth quirked. "I am rubbish at this. How am I supposed to help him when I can't even concentrate on anything? I'm still reeling from losing Mary and Elizabeth myself, still not 100 percent physically from his _wife_ shooting me. I- this is... how do people function like this?"

Sally shook her head, giving him a bit of space. "They don't, really. Not while doing other things. They just… stay home. Cry. Watch shite movies and lay under blankets for a few weeks, sometimes longer, until the worst of it passes. That's it. They just… that's it." 

She scrubbed a hand over the back of her neck, "Look, I'm not the best at this either, but I'm guessing John simply needs to feel loved right now, as do you. Much as it floors me to say it. You've got to hear what he's _not_ saying to you louder than anything else, Sherlock. I know you are grieving, god help me I do. He's just… it's a bit different for him and it's different for you and yeah, it's going to be a hard struggle to put yourself second, but if you love him, you'll figure out how." 

Sherlock closed his eyes and counted to five before reopening them. "Not trying to put myself first for once. But apparently I am incapable of caring for another human being properly. I have to sort the case for my brother or risk being shipped off to only God knows where to mine for information until I'm discovered and killed. Then where will John be? Will you work his suicide?" His jaw worked. "I cannot let him down in this regard and I am trying in others."

Sally nodded, "Then go tell that big brother of yours to damn well do something about this. You're not functioning well, and that's not your fault. Go. Have dinner, sort it with Mycroft, and for god's sake go give John a hug and calm down."

Sherlock glared at her for a minute before he spoke, "Don't tell Lestrade yet... I need to do that myself." He spun and started striding away before turning and walking backwards for a moment, "Donovan... Thanks."

With predictable movements, one of Mycroft's cars glided to a stop beside him and Sherlock did not hesitate to climb in.

Mycroft did not find himself particularly hungry, though he had the staff prepare food and was waiting for his sibling in the less formal sitting, pacing and trying to settle his mind with regard to how much to give his brother, and what to withhold. 

When Sherlock arrived, he slid his hands in his pockets and looked his sibling over critically. "You've been making yourself eat. Good. Please do continue, it will only help."

"And you are the biggest idiot on the planet. Mycroft, what if they figure this out? You'll be on a plane with me." Sherlock ran a hand over his face. "Who is the man in the video?"

Panic shot through Mycroft's heart, though he kept his face placid, and moved to swiftly shut the doors. "Then I'll gladly be your flying companion, do keep your voice down." 

He pointed to a chair next to which there was tea and food. "Sit. Eat." He himself took the chair opposite, taking a moment to scrub his hand over his face. He'd not intended for Sherlock to sort it so quickly. "I simply require you keep up appearances. If you can manage that, everything will be alright."

"Would have taken me longer..." Sherlock murmured as he sat and started picking at the food. "If you hadn't tipped your hand earlier. That I only need keep the Crown interested. Idiot. Well, in truth, I was not fully certain until your reaction just now."

Mycroft nodded and looked away, deeply uncomfortable with things of this nature. "I may have acted… recklessly… in the face of your distress." He looked to Sherlock then, entirely serious. "I need your word, Sherlock, that you will carry on with this rouse. I estimate a three week period where attention is on you, and should the situation call for it, I have the man in custody. As I've said, John is safe, as are you." 

He was grossly breaking the law, stepping far, far out of bounds in this. He had a hostage, for God's sake, but no one damaged his family. No one.

"Of course I will. I'm not leaving John's suicide for Lestrade and Donovan to clean up for God's sake. Nor do I relish having to work with you until we're discovered and executed. Unpleasant business that." Sherlock took a sip of water. "I stormed out on John this morning..."

Mycroft hummed and nodded. "I've been made aware. Lestrade just left before you arrived here. Do not be overly harsh with yourself, Sherlock. John did not always keep himself composed when you were ill, either. Do you intend to see him again today?

"I was going to go and ah- stay if he'll have me." Sherlock continued to pick at his food. "I'm trying, Mycroft. Caring isn't an advantage... and it isn't. But I cannot help it."

Mycroft waved him off. "It's desperately too late for that sort of talk Sherlock, unless you are prepared to leave him for good. Embrace it for what it is. He loves you. You love him. Walls between the pair of you at this point will only do harm."

Sherlock hummed, "Absolutely not... that was my point. It's entirely too late." The food was good and Sherlock found himself savouring it. "Thank you, for saving us." He looked up to Mycroft.

Mycroft nearly choked, taking a moment to gather himself.

"You are my brother, and I will always endeavour to do so. I am doing what I know to do for John, though I believe all involved are at something of a loss there."

Sherlock snorted, "Pay back for that nonsense at Christmas." They both knew that the sentiments were serious though. There was a sigh from Sherlock. "I need to go to him... see if he'll take me back and accept an apology."

Mycroft hummed and nodded, "He will, I've no doubt. Now, regarding your face time at the yard, I've plenty to feed MI6 at the moment. Take a few days, sort things with John. I'm going to give them Richard, if you can believe that is his actual first name, and in the end I'll hand him over, thus securing your release."

"You have him? God, there really was a Richard." Sherlock shook his head. "I cannot believe he had a bloody twin. Was this _all_ you?"

Mycroft shook his head. "I was tracking him, but the moment I realized he was having sport with that scene I… He is being privately held. He has no hope of freedom unless I grant it. I will not. He has been in my custody since he put on that little display."

Sherlock nodded. "Then I shall figure him out piece by piece. Is he as deranged as his twin?" Twins. Christ. "Did he play Richard Brook at that idiot reporter's flat? It was obvious they were sexual... Jim never struck me as the type to go that far."

Mycroft touched his fingers to his lip and considered what to tell Sherlock at the moment. "You have never seen him before these new tapes, no. He's been… I believe very deeply that I have done him a kindness in apprehending him. These are details for later, but no, you've never had anything to worry over with him. He is not the same as James."

"Jim was dedicated then... Right, well, feed us what you will, when you will. I have a- well, a John, whatever we are to one another, to go and comfort." Sherlock stood. "Thank you. I know I haven't always been grateful, so this is me, being grateful. Take advantage of my emotionally compromised state while you can." There was a warmth and tease under the words they'd not used in years.

Mycroft stood with him and closed the space swiftly. He reached up and brushed a bit of Sherlock's hair from his face, as much of a statement as he could make. "You are welcome any time, though please do announce yourself first if I am working with others here. Now, John..."

He stepped back and slid a hand in his pocket, "not been a good day for him, do exercise as much patience as you can, remember that he is unable to give chase if you leave, and had been repeatedly drugged today for his own safety. It will all sort, brother, but it will be challenging. If you find yourself needing to leave, then do so."

Sherlock nodded to Mycroft. He took a deep breath before heading out. 

The trip to John's current place of residence was not long and Sherlock found himself wishing for just a few more minutes alone. He took them in the back seat of the car, pulling himself together before stepping out of the vehicle. Sherlock stepped inside, taking the time it took to travel to John’s room, to brace for the possibility he was not wanted.

"How many bloody times… I'm not going to talk to you, leave me the hell alone!" John finally broke, shouting at the therapist in his room after nearly an hour of pestering. He sat with his back to the headboard, knees in front of his chest, furiously picking at the bracelet around his wrist. He was pale and drawn, exhausted after several physical struggles with the orderlies throughout the day.

More than that, he'd lost hope. Sherlock… and it was late now. Greg had come and John had tried to leave only to learn he was now classified as a danger to himself and on a hold. So he'd broken composure and screamed at the therapist, turning his face away and resting his cheek on his knee, tears slowly dripping off his nose.

Sherlock came into the room looking thunderous. "It would do you well to leave my partner, in every sense of that word, alone. He's had enough today, starting with me being rude and uncouth this morning." He slid the Belstaff off his shoulders and wrapped it around John. 

He settled a hip on the bed beside John and placed fingers under his chin, "John, can you ever forgive me for being such an arse this morning? I apologize for snapping at you so."

The moment Sherlock's coat wrapped around his shoulders, John's entire demeanor shifted. He leaned into Sherlock's fingers and in the next moment had his arms locked around Sherlock's neck.

It took all of fifteen seconds for his shoulders to begin shaking with silent tears, worn down and utterly defeated by the day.

The therapist gave Sherlock a pointed look as he stood up, moving toward the door. "I'll see you in the morning, John."

Sherlock drew John further against him as he watched the therapist, a mild expression on his face. His shoes were toed off and with a bit of manoeuvring, Sherlock had them settled back in the bed, John tucked against his neck, the great coat over both of them. John was held tight to Sherlock, one hand rubbing his back. "I am never going to leave you, John. I may get angry, I may snap... I may very well walk out and clear my head. But I will never leave you again."

 _'He's tearing himself to shreds, John. This isn't good for him. You need to think of Sherlock, he's been through hell this year, and the last, and the one before that. I will_ not _lose him now, not after all of this. I owe you a deep amount of gratitude, I do, and I will take you where you can be properly looked after as a result. This cannot continue.'_

_'Fine then, I'll just go back to Mary's house and-'_

_'No, John. No one is an idiot in this room. We both know what you will do, and I will not allow that either, Sherlock would not survive it. You love him, so I know that you will get up with me now and get into the car.'_

John hid his face back down against Sherlock's chest and nodded. "It… just became too much… I'd not meant to stop speaking, didn't realize… I know I can't stay with you, I know-" his voice cracked at that and he pinched his eyes shut as a sudden, shocking sob overtook him. "I'm trying! I'm trying n-not to be-" he shook his head as heavy tears slid down his face, going silent again. 

"John, John... what- of course you can stay with me. I refuse to give you up! Mycroft, Christ... Oh, John. Breathe for me." Sherlock pressed a desperate kiss to the top of his head. "I have had two days of casework. I'm taking a few days off for us, John. Just for us. As long as you do not shut down on me again, we can do this. If you shut down again, we need outside help because I am not strong enough to give you the type of help you need. God knows I wish I were... I just don't have the strength and skills you do."

John listened to Sherlock as he clung to him. "I didn't mean to," he managed, face a mess of tears, "I… I… m-maybe you should just..." he slowly drew his hand away, his chest heaving as he did so, wanting nothing more than Sherlock's company. He didn't know if he could abide the terms Sherlock was setting down, and it would kill him to go home, only to wake back up in this place. 

John pressed his hands over his face, curling down in on himself. His loss of Mary and Elizabeth seemed to be ending in losing Sherlock as well, and he could not bear it. 

"John, hey, no." Sherlock rubbed his back in tender strokes. "I will not bring you back here. You will not come back here. But I may have to have someone come help at Baker Street if it gets to be too much for me. I am not letting you go. Okay?" There were several kisses laid to John's head. 

He was tender as he brushed John's hands from his face. Sherlock tilted John's head up and grazed his lips over John's. It was no more than a few seconds of contact before Sherlock backed off again, wanting to comfort, not startle.

John grabbed hold of Sherlock's shirt and pulled himself close, tucking in against his side and hiding his face. He clung to Sherlock's chest as he tried to get himself back together. The day had been one hellish moment after the next and he just wanted to scream and run the fuck away. He craved quiet and familiar, not this… institutionalized bullshit. He dragged a knee up, draping it over Sherlock's thigh. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he shook his head, the words muffled against Sherlock's side. He'd never felt so terrible in his entire life, destroying everything he held dear with his own inadequacy. It was a flooding relief to hear that Sherlock would not dump him off here again, "I h-hate this place."

"I loathe it, budge up a moment." Sherlock shifted them enough to slide his phone from his coat, thumb swiping across the screen to send a text to Mycroft.

_Need John home. This is killing him. He is responsive once more and I believe home is a better option for both of us now. Also, sweep flat for bugs. YOURS INCLUDED. SH_

He nuzzled John's head. "You don't have to apologize, John. Everything is going to settle. I'm sorry I was such an ass."

John went quiet and after a few minutes, began to doze. Sherlock's mobile was suddenly a hub of activity. 

_Sherlock, saw John. Not good, hope you go tonight. Careful around his hip. GL_

Followed swiftly by Mycroft's response. 

_I am working on it, Sherlock, but he's been put on Suicide Watch. Very difficult to release him now that he's deemed a threat. Will make sure flat is clean. M_

Nearly directly after, Molly texted. 

_Is John alright? Are you? Greg said John had been in some sort of fight! What's on, Sherlock? Molly_

Sherlock frowned about John's hip addressing that first with Greg.

_Asleep on my chest. Information on hip needed. SH_

He scowled at the information from Mycroft. 

_Not leaving him alone in here again. SH_

Poor sweet Molly. He couldn't help but smile. She was a good woman. Too good for anyone really.

_John is currently asleep on my chest. I was an arse this morning... Yelled at him and left. Yes, I'm a horrible person. SH_

Half an hour passed in silence, Sherlock's mobile still and quiet, John breathing soft and steady against his chest. It wasn't until the staff came for nightly rounds, knocking lightly on the door, that John startled awake hard, desperately clutching at Sherlock as he instantly began talking, eyes still closed. 

" ‘m not going to talk to you," he breathed, shaking his head. Like hell was he going to talk to any of them. He sat up, groggy and exhausted, trying to get a look at her. "I'm not... leave me alone. Just leave… leave me alone." 

"John I'm just-" 

He cut her off, swaying as he sat there, "'s Dr. Watson. I don't want to talk to you. I'm… I was… I was asleep and..." he whimpered in confusion, pressing the heel of his palm to his eyes and shaking his head, seemingly unaware of Sherlock.

"John?" Sherlock's tone was gentle. "Why don't you lie back down here on me?" He rubbed over John's back in slow, tender circles. "No one wants you to talk right now. You need rest." His gaze moved to the nurse. "What do you need?" There was no bite to his tone and all things considered, it was a gentle question.

John's eyes went wide and he turned to face Sherlock, surprised to find him there. He had his arms around Sherlock and his face pressed down to his chest in the next moment, breathing slower nearly instantly. 

The nurse shook her head, "Simply doing a bed check. Goodnight," she said quietly, gently shutting the door behind her. 

John shifted against Sherlock again, tugging lightly at him. "I hate it here."

Sherlock stroked his hair as he held him close. "I know. I'm working on getting you out. Rather, Mycroft is working on getting you out and I'm not leaving your side until we do. I am so sorry. Do you not remember me coming in when the therapist was in here?"

John leaned into Sherlock's touch. "I do," he whispered, tightening his hold on Sherlock. He'd just never expected him to still be there. "I… you find me… upsetting and difficult and I didn't expect you to s-stay," he answered honestly, not wanting to let him go. 

_He is tearing himself apart. You must think of what's best for Sherlock._

"I do! I _always_ think of what's… what's better for… I just got tired! I just-" 

_This cannot continue._

"I didn't know! Please I didn't-" John swallowed hard and pinched his eyes closed tight, It never occurred to him that he'd been audibly answering a memory. 

Sherlock swore under his breath and continued stroking John's hair. "You aren't difficult, I just- it was beyond my ability to cope with for a little while. I have my feet back under me. Please forgive me. I know you were tired. Easy, love. Easy. I have you and I will not leave you again, do you hear me? No one is going to separate us."

John nodded and sank down boneless against Sherlock, though he kept his grip tight on Sherlock's shirt. Soon enough he was back down asleep, his breathing deep and even. 

Mycroft texted Sherlock moments later. 

_Paperwork is in process, car will be waiting in half an hour. Flat is clear. M_

Sherlock decided not to wake John until they came for them, but he did text Mycroft back.

_You have my gratitude. SH_

His hands never stilled on John, comforting and rubbing as they laid there together, John fast asleep in his arms. When the nurse came in, she was quiet and held up the paperwork. Sherlock was gentle with his words and he spoke in quiet tones. "John, I know you're sleeping well, but how about we go home to Baker Street and curl up in bed there?"

John opened his eyes and looked up at Sherlock in foggy, sleepy confusion. "Baker… they're letting me out? I… what about earlier I- yes please take me home oh god, take me home. Take me home!" He grabbed at Sherlock and pulled at his shirt as though Sherlock might suddenly change his mind and leave John there. He was still so heavily drugged it was difficult to think properly. 

"Easy, John. Easy. Let's get you sitting up." Sherlock whispered as he eased John up.

The nurse wheeled in a chair for John. "You're going to be a bit wobbly Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes can push you down if you'd like. There's already a car waiting on you." She held papers out for Sherlock to sign, though he had no idea what Mycroft had pulled for him to be the one signing. He didn't care. Sherlock scrawled his name.

"Ready to get in the chair?" Sherlock asked him.

John stood up and moved with a bit of a limp to the chair just by the bed, easing into it, wrapping his arms tight around himself. He so desperately wanted to go home, wanted to believe that's what was on. So he closed his eyes as the medication tried to pull him back under, clearly putting his trust in Sherlock to keep him safe.

Sherlock scowled at the limp but said nothing. He hauled their bags down on his shoulder, eschewing help from anyone else... He just wanted John home. A driver met them at the doors and took the bags from Sherlock. 

John was handled with great care as Sherlock got him into the vehicle. "There," he whispered when they were settled in the car. "Let's go home, okay?"

John melded to Sherlock's side, the car ride making him a bit ill, but otherwise he was much more relaxed with space between himself and the hospital facility. He laced their fingers together and fell into something of a doze again until the car stopped. He opened his eyes and gave Sherlock a lazy smile, trying to sit himself up properly. "Thank you."

Sherlock couldn't help the broad smile that crossed his face. "Anything for you, John, always." The driver helped them out of the vehicle and followed them up the stairs, Sherlock half carrying John up them due to the limp. He felt like throttling someone over the injury. A few minutes later found Sherlock easing John down into their bed. "There we are."

John sat on the side of the bed and tore the hateful white scrub top off his chest, followed by immediately shucking out of his trousers and tossing them in the bin. "Not ever again," he vowed to himself, not at all bothered to simply be in his pants. He fell flat down to his back and stared up at the ceiling, hands curled in tight to his chest, overly thin and overly pale. 

"I thought that… that Mycroft and I… thought he was m-my friend. That's how incurable of… of an idiot I am."

The driver left their bags on the sofa and cleared out. Sherlock pushed the bedroom door shut. He started undressing, hanging his jacket and putting his clothes in their proper places before he turned off all the lights but the one on the bedside table. Sherlock crawled into bed with John in his pants and wrapped an arm around John's waist. "Mycroft is a well-meaning arse. I was losing my mind and so were you. I was edging toward panic and drug use and you were shutting down. He did what he thought was best for both of us."

John hissed as Sherlock's elbow brushed over the tender flesh on his hip, shifting so that it wasn't making contact. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the slow burn of tears. The medication was pitching him all over the place. "He… no. Not both of us. But that's- he's your brother. I'm just… John." 

His brows tugged down for a moment and he drew in a sharp breath to try and keep himself steady. "I'm- I didn't intend to drive you out of your mind… I just… the baby. I can't stop thinking… I… it's so hard to even breathe and if I..." he shook his head and covered his face with his hands. 

Sherlock took in a sharp breath. "John, breathe for me. I know, I know. I am sorry I let myself go to pieces on you. You have every right to be upset and going to pieces. It's alright, it is. I'm okay now. I am sorry I let you down."

John nodded and focused on his breathing slowing himself down and trying to do as Sherlock asked. It had been horrible, losing his family, and worse yet, being sent away. He'd not give Sherlock reason to again if he could help it. "I'm fine," he whispered, nodding to himself again as if to prove it. "I'm… I'm fine."

"John, fine is not a requirement. I am not going to let you go anywhere. Okay? I've taken a couple of days off from the case. I was right. It wasn't Moriarty... Things are- difficult. But I am going to stay with you for a few days. I do have to work though. Conditions of me staying free, but I'm not sending you anywhere. Okay?" Sherlock pressed their heads together.

"You know your idiot brother has that guy, yeah?" John breathed, leaning into Sherlock as much as Sherlock would allow. "If he's making you work, he wants you away from me. Mycroft always gets what he wants." 

"I know everything, John. I have to work for about three more weeks to keep from being shipped to my death... When I said six months on the tarmac- that's about how long I'll survive before I'm discovered and put to death as a spy. This is about Mycroft ensuring that doesn't happen." Nothing in his words were harsh, he was desperate to make John understand this wasn't just Mycroft being a prick.

John made a horrified, pained sound that rattled up from the core of his chest, reaching out and grabbing hold of Sherlock, clutching at him in desperation. "NO!" His heart was going to beat right out of his chest, crack through his ribs and split the skin, surely. His mouth ran dry and he was squeezing Sherlock with everything he had, holding him as one would a loved one threatened by intense current, as though Sherlock would be swept away any moment. 

"NO! _NO_!" The very idea...the scars Sherlock already- John was so close to the edge of his limit that even the thought of Sherlock being sent away like that had tipped him into shocked panic. 

Sherlock swore softly. "John, John! Breathe! I am not going anywhere. Mycroft is making sure of it. I have you. I am here. I am not going anywhere. I just have to work. Look at me." He was gentle as he rolled John to his back and, careful of his hip, straddled John. "Look at me. This is me, here with you, not going anywhere, John."

Being surrounded with Sherlock as he was, it was much easier for John to become aware of his situation. He listened to Sherlock, so overcome emotionally that he found nothing odd in their positions. His frantic grip on Sherlock eased slightly and he nodded, biting down on his lip to keep himself from shouting simply from pure, bottled hurt and frustration at the world. He'd had enough. 

"K...ok....n-not going...sorry, I'm sorry, I'm- I don't know what's wrong with me I- it's all so- I can't make it s-stop and-" he whimpered and pressed his hands to his face, dragging in a deep breath. 

Sherlock leaned in and pressed a lingering kiss to John's forehead. "Alright, okay... You fall to pieces if you need to. I will pick them all up." He whispered against John's head. "I have you, even if you fall I will pick you back up."

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, nearly whimpering in relief. He nodded against the side of Sherlock's head, tears sliding down past his temples and dripping into his hair. "You won't s-send me away again. You… you'll catch…" He shivered and hid his face in the join of Sherlock's neck and shoulder, breathing as deep and slow as he could. His language and behaviour had slipped to something far more… open and childlike than normal, but the drugs and the panic were proving too much. 

Sherlock stayed as he was, keeping his voice gentle and soft. "I will never send you away again. I will always be here to catch you and pick you back up. You never have to be alone again, John. You have me. You will always have me." He was tender as he spoke to John. John would never hurt like this again if Sherlock could prevent it.

John nodded and held Sherlock close, going quiet and slowly relaxing over time. 

"I clobbered an orderly," he breathed, smirking for a moment before going quiet again, deeply enjoying how close they were.

Sherlock chuckled and nuzzled John's temple. "As well you should have. I would have paid good money to see it though." This closeness is what they'd both been needing, a reminder they were both very much alive and together despite the pain of the rest of it.

John shifted slightly underneath Sherlock, settling into a position that was likely to be comfortable for a long while. The skin-to-skin contact was so far detached from sexual that he was utterly comfortable, just soaking in the fact that he was not alone, he was close and sheltered at the moment, and that was honestly all he needed. 

"Thank you for coming back. I needed you to come back."

Sherlock squirmed around until he was draped over John in a way that was comfortable for him and meant he wasn't squishing John. He let out a slow, relieved breath. "The only way I wasn't coming back is if you made it impossible for me to. I was in a stupid strop. I will never abandon you, John. Not now, not ever." John's neck was warm and inviting and it was _John_. Sherlock nuzzled his face there and just breathed in his scent, happy and content to be close to him.

Eventually John fell asleep, one hand wrapped around Sherlock's back, the other curled up against his own chest. His dreams were active, but not particularly troubling, more clips of memory and imagery than anything else. 

Sherlock fell asleep against John soon after, his face buried down against his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who haven't seen/don't keep up with us on tumblr _De Ses Cendres_ is no longer a WIP. It is complete. -gestures up to chapter count-
> 
> If we didn't flesh the ending out at all, and left it as it stands, the overall word count would stand at about 90,000 words. As it is, the last chapter probably has several thousand words of fleshing out to be done, possibly the last two. But the story is there. So a word count of approximately 95,000 is not out of the question... 
> 
> Then again if vast swaths hit the cutting room floor between now and then elsewhere- well... Anyhow, there you have it.
> 
> There will be a short piece to wrap up the series and complete it.
> 
> Beyond that: Amphi and I will no longer be posting any WIPs. It became entirely too stressful for us. By the time _De Ses Cendres_ is finished posting, the wrap up to the series will be complete and we'll post it on the heels of _De Ses_
> 
> We are going to complete and post _Herre_ , the third installment of the _Word Play_ series. It tells Mycroft's story alluded to here and in _Raison_.
> 
> Thanks for your continued support.
> 
> _Symphony_


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they say in the _Princess Bride_
> 
> _"To the pain..."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To our wonderful betas once again Vilestrumpet and beltainefaerie without whom, Symphony would go mad.

When John woke up the next morning, Sherlock's weight steadied him and he turned slightly to his side, burrowing down into him, trying to hide from the day before it began. 

Still mostly asleep, Sherlock let out a soft hum. He nuzzled on instinct, seeking to comfort even in his sleep. A yawn caught him by surprise and he muttered at it but kept close to John. After a few minutes he murmured something that might have been 'good morning'.

John curled his fingers up to his lips, pressed down deep into the bedding and working to put himself as much under Sherlock as possible. 

"Morning," he replied hoarsely as he used his free hand to drag the blankets higher over them, nearly entirely covering his head. 

Sherlock shifted then and draped back over John a chuckle in his voice. "Now people will definitely talk." His face tucked back in against John's neck and head, just taking comfort in the closeness.

"Fuck people," John whispered back, never in his life meaning those words more than he did in that moment. As far as John was concerned, people could hang. He was done. In a flash of terrifying clarity, he found that he could empathize with Sebastian Moran. They were trained to kill, and John's saving grace had been the counter training to heal. 

He could do it now, given the correct pressures, John could take money to point and pull triggers. Why the hell not? He was good at it, and humanity was fucked, and what would it matter, anyhow? 

Soaking in his dark thoughts, John faded into his mind, blanking on Sherlock as they lay there in the bed.

Realizing John's mind must have taken him somewhere at the gentle tease, Sherlock took a chance and pressed a few tender kisses to his neck. It was about drawing him back to the present. "Hey," he whispered, "Come back to me, John. Come back up to me." There was a gentle kiss pressed to the corner of John's mouth before following it up with a couple where his jaw met his neck. "Come back."

John shifted under Sherlock, not at all feeling deserving of any sort of attention. He swallowed hard and drew in a slow, deep breath, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. "I need a shower, I smell like a mental hospital," he whispered, putting a gentle hand on Sherlock's chest and easing him back so that John could sit up. 

He dropped his feet over the side of the bed, ignoring the twinge from his hip where he had a nice bruise forming, visible up over the band of his pants. He raked his hands through his hair, giving himself a moment before pushing up to his feet. "I'm going to shower, then maybe we should eat, and then I want to go sort it all at Mary's house so I can put it on the market tomorrow."

Sherlock watched him and he nodded. "As you wish. Whatever you need. I'll see about breakfast while you shower." Fingertips trailed just above the forming bruise. "Should take some paracetamol." He was worried for John, but he seemed to be coming back out of the terrible withdrawn state he'd been in and Sherlock would take that.

John moved into the lav after brushing his fingertips over Sherlock's at his hip. He set his jaw as he stepped under the cold spray, not wanting comfort at the moment. He was steeling himself, battle ready, sheltering himself mentally as he had for years and years. He was going to go to his marital home, take just a few things to tote about in a box likely for the rest of his days, and then he was going to be rid of it as fast as was possible. As with every other home he had, he lived in a way that allowed him to pick up and move in the short span of a few hours. It had _always_ proven necessary. 

He scrubbed himself mechanically, stepping out just a few minutes after getting in, going to clean his teeth and choosing to leave himself unshaven. _Fuck it all, just fuck it all._

Just as he was preparing to dress, he caught sight of himself for no other reason than to simply _look_ , staring at a face he wasn't sure belonged to him any longer. He looked down at his hands and, with his heart very carefully barricaded behind steel walls, began to work the ring off his finger. He'd taken it off when doubting her, and now he took it off while separating himself from the man he was when he allowed himself to love her. 

He set it down on the counter, safely in the corner, and without another thought turned and began to dress for the long day ahead. He was as put together as he was going to get when he walked into the kitchen, back straight and jaw tight, tucked safely in the mantle of Captain Watson. 

Sherlock had retrieved Mrs. Hudson after explaining the situation. By the time John was emerging from his morning ablutions, Sherlock was dressed for battle in a suit sipping a mug of tea, paper in his hand and Mrs. Hudson was setting out eggs and toast for the both of them, beans and sausages following shortly after. John's entrance caught Sherlock's attention.

 _Ah,_ Captain _Watson then. Makes sense._

"Morning." Sherlock straightened his cuffs as Mrs. Hudson smiled to him.

"Morning, John dear." Mrs. Hudson spoke in that motherly way as she settled his food on the table. "You boys need anything else?"

John shook his head, sitting down and forcing himself to pick up a fork. "Thank you, no," he said quietly, not looking at her as he tucked into eggs mechanically, eating because he would need energy to make it through the day. He intended to have it done and sorted before he returned to Baker Street. 

He pushed through his meal in silence, managing all the eggs and toast, eating a bit of sausage as well before pushing the plate back and having his tea. He was deeply relieved to see Sherlock in his typical attire. Today, he needed to be as detached and professional as possible. His mind kept wandering to the nursery, and he ruthlessly snapped down on those thoughts with crushing brutality. It was just a room, and he was going to get through it. 

Sherlock managed the majority of his meal and snapped the paper shut when he was done. Mrs. Hudson did not speak as she cleaned around the pair, only brushing a hand over a shoulder now and again. Sherlock deposited mobile and wallet into his pockets as he looked to John. “Shall we?”

The car could be useful but keeping one in the middle of London was impractical. He allowed his thoughts to drift through the things needing done.

John traced the place on his finger where his ring had been that morning, taking a moment to breathe and build up his walls as a flash of apprehensive nerves tore through him.

With a tight nod, John stood, walking to the rack and pulling on his coat. 

The cab ride was silent, and John took the time to keep himself focused and centered. When his hands began to shake as they pulled down the street, he ignored them. Today would be the end of it. He was going to do this, and he was going to walk away with lessons tightly held to his chest, never, ever to be repeated again. He drew the key out of his pocket and got out of the car, standing on the pavement outside of Mary's home, staring at it as he battled with himself to keep calm. 

This was John's show. All of it came down to him and what he needed to do. Sherlock would support him in any and every endeavor no matter the cost to himself. A hand wrapped around John's free one. Most of Sherlock's clothing was here. On the ride over he'd called and arranged for boxes to be delivered so the two of them could pack what needed packing. "Ready?"

John closed his eyes, and with a deep breath he gave a sharp nod and moved forward. The key slid home, and in the next moment he was surrounded by a rush of air carrying Mary and John diligently tried to ignore the way his entire body bloomed in gooseflesh. 

He walked deeper into the house, silent and hardly breathing. She was everywhere. 

"It's just like you," he breathed, not conscious of the fact that he was audibly talking, "it's Baker Street all… all over again." He cleared his throat and scrambled to pull his military bearing back up. With a sharp nod and ruthless detachment, he turned to face Sherlock. 

"Right then. Get your things together. Whatever we leave here today is going to be sent to charity. Tomorrow, I'll put the house up and that… that will be that."

Sherlock put a hand on John's shoulder and disappeared to where his clothing was stored. The next half hour Sherlock spent combing the house for anything of his. When he found it under the corner of the bed in 'his' room, the tall man sat down, buried his face against it and sobbed. He'd not really cried since the day he'd come and shut the nursery door.

The plush skull was clutched in his hands. Fingers white against it as he struggled to keep quiet. He was going to take it to Elizabeth when she'd made her debut.

John moved through the house in a daze. He stopped at their bedroom door and put his hand on the knob, suddenly unable to push the door open. He closed his eyes and tipped his forehead to the wood for a moment before sternly making himself go inside. He closed the door behind him and then put his back to it, breathing deeply for a full minute before opening his eyes and looking around. 

The bed was unmade, her dressing gown where she'd left it in her hurry to dress. _We'll be late, John, hurry!_

His legs moved without his mind, and before he knew what he was doing, he was on his side on their bed, arms slowly sliding around her pillow. He allowed himself to lay there as he screamed in his mind, hand occasionally sliding over the sheets where she had laid. 

With red-rimmed eyes, John got up and began to mill through the room in detached efficiency. Nearly an hour later, he had his things expertly packed in his suitcases, very well practiced in this. He added to the case, at the very bottom, a box of Mary's effects, jewelry and whatnot. He boxed the few pictures they had, as they'd been together a sum total of sixteen months and not particularly done much worth photographing outside of the wedding. 

He was just about to leave the room for good when he stopped up short, turning around and abruptly walking back to the bed. He grabbed up her dressing gown, brought it up and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. 

When he finally closed the door behind him, it was safely tucked away in his suitcase. He left the bag near the door and closed his eyes again, steeling himself for what would come next. 

He walked through the kitchen, past a pack of bottles still in the plastic, a little bow still fitted atop from Mary's shower. He did not hesitate at the nursery door, walking straight in and looking around. 

Pastel letters spelling out 'Ellie' hung over the crib. Mary had moved forward with the name without his blessing, teasing him as she hung the letters. _It's such a sweet nickname, John! Come now, look!_

He cracked a smile at the memory, walking over to the side of the crib and wrapping his fingers around the railing. His shoulder bumped the little mobile, which slowly began to spin, tinkling little music quietly kicking up around him. He closed his eyes and hung his head, giving himself a moment to breathe through the tidal wave of pain it induced. 

Sherlock did not let go of the skull when he was able to pull himself together. It went into the top of one of the boxes of his things. He appeared in the doorway of the nursery before he crossed the room, wrapping his arms around John from behind. 

His face pressed down against John’s head as they stood there, taking in the nursery. The pain washed over Sherlock, sharp and deep in a way he hadn’t know was possible.

"There's nothing in here to take," John whispered, his knuckles blanching on the crib. "She never left her mother. She… there..." he let go with one hand and pinched his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "Was I wrong? Should I have let them deliver her? She… I thought she'd… it would be better for her to stay with her mother. Maybe… maybe I should have held her. I..."

Sherlock held John tighter as he spoke. "She knows you love her, John." He held no religious beliefs and Sherlock, in general, scoffed at things like the words he was saying. But in this moment, he believed with all that he had, he spoke the truth. "She's with her mother. She is where she always knew warmth and love. She knows you love her and did what you thought best for her."

John dropped his hand back to the rail of the crib and hung his head, failing to keep the tears from dripping slowly off his lashes. He stood there in terrible silence for so long that his feet began to tingle. "I wanted..." he shook his head and stopped. It didn't matter. 

With a slow, deep breath he opened his eyes and dragged a hand across his face, gently moving away from Sherlock. He turned to face the rest of the nursery, speaking through the wreckage that his voice had become. "I suppose it's all for charity now."

Sherlock spoke, words gentle. "I know of a place it will all go to very good use. Would you like me to arrange for it to be taken there?" He already had intentions of donating in Mary and Elizabeth's name there. Sherlock crossed to the dresser to pull a small blanket from one of the drawers.

_"Sherlock that is the most ridiculous thing you've brought home for her yet." Mary said as she stared at the blanket that blended in with his coat._

_"It is not ridiculous!" He exclaimed as he held it up. Sherlock had sacrificed a spare coat for the blanket and had 'stolen' Mycroft's tailor to have it made. "This way if I have to tuck her into my coat while going somewhere she is used to it and enjoys it. Not ridiculous at all."_

_Mary's expression softened and she smiled to him. "Careful, Sherlock, your heart is showing again."_

John turned to see what Sherlock had pulled from the drawer. He stared at the little blanket made from a discarded Belstaff. Mary had mentioned it, but they had swiftly fallen into another argument soon after and he'd forgotten. He walked over and took it out of Sherlock's hands, thumbs brushing the soft inner lining. 

"You would have..." he cleared his throat, angling his head slightly to the side, "she would have been fortunate to have you for an uncle," he managed as his knees decided that it was quite time to sit. He slowly sank down into the plush rocker he'd bought for Mary, clutching the blanket in his hands and staring at the floor. 

Sherlock moved across to John and sank to his knees in front of him. He pressed a hand to John's knee, just sitting there with him. "I'd have been fortunate to have have her." Sherlock just did keep his voice from cracking when he said it. Fingers squeezed John's knees as they sat there.

John brought the blanket up to his face, hiding behind it for a moment and allowing himself to imagine what Sherlock would have looked like holding his daughter in such an absurd thing. "I wanted so desperately to be a dad. All my life, I wanted… but that's over now. It's all… all over. It's over." He lowered the blanket then, gently folding it on his lap and dragging in a deep breath as he swept his eyes over the room. 

"I was a fool." 

He stood up then, stepping around Sherlock with the blanket clutched in one hand, brushing his fingers against the absurd bear as he swiftly moved out of the nursery. He walked back out into the sitting, casting his eyes swiftly about until they landed on his mug. He walked over, plucked it up, and gave a sharp nod. "Goodbye," he breathed, moving with haste to his bags and abruptly dragging them out of the house, standing on the front walk, refusing to look back. 

Sherlock allowed himself to tip his head to the soft chair. For several moments all he did was breathe. When he stood he took a moment to spin in a slow circle. "Elizabeth..." He nodded, a sharp dip of his head before he stole one of the ridiculous hats from the top of the dresser. _Sentiment._

He took a moment in the kitchen and gathered a few glass jars. The hat he put on the plush skull before gathering everything and taking it outside in the boxes he'd brought. Sherlock set everything by the road before turning to look up at the house.

John kept his back to the house, nearly ready to start running. "G-Get us a car, we need to go. Right now. Right… right now." His jaw was set and his shoulders squared, but his eyes were glassy and bloodshot, and he was a breath away from exploding. "Please."

Sherlock had his mobile to his ear before John could finish. "Yes, at the house. Yes. Thank you." His free arm went around John's shoulders.

Mycroft had anticipated the call when Mrs. Hudson had called earlier telling him what the pair of them were up to for the day. He had the car on standby. 

Sherlock terminated the call and slipped his mobile into his pocket. He wrapped his other arm around John. "Should be here any second."

By the time the car arrived, minutes later, John was managing to keep his composure despite the violent trembling that had claimed his entire body. He allowed the driver to load everything into the car and opened the back door himself before stopping. He turned back to face the house then. 

_Shall I carry you over the threshold, wife?_

_Oh, do shut up, husband. But yes. Pick me up._

He swept his eyes over the home he'd just begun to build for himself, his little pathetic effort at _calm_ and _happy_. He stepped away from the car, moving of his own volition back to the door, leaving Sherlock at his back. He stepped back into the house and closed the door behind him. 

In the foyer he angled his jaw up, finding his voice as he kept his bearing, chin unsteady despite. "You both gave me something I knew I'd never have. This was more than I ever expected in my lifetime, and I will be forever grateful to you for showing me love, messy and complicated as it was. I'm-" he snapped his jaw shut as a tear streaked down his face, He cleared his throat and pressed forward, "Mary, Ellie, I love you both. Never forgotten, alright? Never." 

He gave a sharp nod and turned on his heel, moving back out of his home for the final time. He pushed himself to the car and loaded in without another word, keeping his back straight as he sat down next to Sherlock, staring at his hands in his lap, breathing tight and overly controlled. 

Sherlock wrapped an arm around John's shoulders without a word and just held him. He gave a curt nod to the driver who pulled away from the curb. The house was watched until Sherlock would have to shift to keep watching. His eyes slid back to the front, watching out the windscreen, eyes unfocused.

_"You'll take care of them, won't you?"_

_Mary's voice startled him out of an almost doze on the sofa and he sat up, head tilting as he looked at her._

_"If something ever happens to me, I mean. You'll take care of Ellie and John."_

_Sherlock's brows furrowed, "Of course I will. You're not going anywhere Mary. I’ll rid us of that loathsome troll."_

_She'd merely smiled a small, almost sad, smile._

She'd known... Sherlock hadn't realized it, but she'd know. Like Mycroft, she thought she was safe until after she'd had Ellie. He took in a sharp breath and tightened his arm around John that much more.

John was silent and completely still through the entire drive. When they made it to Baker Street, he slowly got out of the car and grabbed his bags, taking them up without a word. He moved to the little bedroom that used to be his and left them up there, turning and walking away in the next second. He moved down to his chair, toed off his shoes and sat down, heart in his throat, keeping his hands on his knees, doing his best to kill off that place in his heart that had allowed him to fall into this position time and time again. 

He closed his eyes and turned inward, trying to gather up all the places that screamed in their pain, stuffing them down into quiet corners of his mind. He could never be that man again. He would never allow himself to be that man again. 

Sherlock brought his boxes up and stored the one that had sentimental things in it under the bed. He hung his suits in the wardrobe, taking his time and letting John have a few minutes to himself. When he was finished he moved out and started the kettle. The tea was made to perfection and Sherlock carried a mug out to his table before settling down in his chair across from John.

John did not speak, hardly noticed Sherlock at all as he sat there, brutalizing any part of himself that felt weak or run down. There was no place for that any longer. It got people killed. 

Nearly an hour slid by in silence when John finally opened his eyes and looked up, detached and cold. "You and your brother had it right all along. The rest of us are idiots."

Oh. _Oh no_. Not John. He looked at John and shook his head. "No. John. No. Don't-" Sherlock took in a slow breath. "Don't do this to yourself. It is no way to live. I didn't know that until you, but it's not a way to live."

John shook his head, "What have I done for you? Fuck all, that's what. I don't do a damn bit of good for anyone, Sherlock." His voice dripped with heavy self-loathing and he looked back down at his feet.

Sherlock laughed. There was nothing else to do in that instance. "Oh for God's sake. You're joking, right? You have made my life so much richer, so many times over, John... and don't you dare bring up 'but my wife' just don't. You, you are phenomenal. You make my life wonderful. Something I didn't think was possible."

John shook his head, jaw tightening. "I get people hurt. That is the end of it." His chest ached so horribly that for a moment he wondered if it was cardiac in nature. Vision blurring, he stared down at the floor, determined never, ever to be in this position again. 

Sherlock tried to wrap his mind around the shift that was happening. "So, this, us. We stay like this?" There was no anger, no irritation, not even any hurt in Sherlock's tone as he asked the question. He did not expect John to jump up and take him to bed, hell, he hadn't really even thought about that at length yet... but he had no idea what John was actually suggesting at this point.

" _What_?" John's head snapped up so swiftly it hurt. Of all the things he'd been braced for, that was not one of them. His heart was squeezing in on itself, twisting so hard he physically pressed a hand to his chest, grinding the heel of his palm to his ribs. "I- what I-" he grimaced, pinching his eyes shut, ears suddenly ringing so loud he could hardly hear anything else. Already deeply overwhelmed, he had no idea how to even begin with that. He and Sherlock had seemingly chosen not to discuss whatever was between them ever since they left for Christmas dinner. 

"I don't… I… god I-" he shook his head, not sure how to respond.

Sherlock rubbed a hand over his face. "Right, no. Forget I said anything. You should eat something even if you don't want to. I'll make sandwiches." He had no idea what John wanted from him so he would shelve it until they were both more stable. "Food. Was there anything else you wanted, or needed to do today?"

Leaving his chair felt like getting himself out of molasses. He didn't know what the fuck he was supposed to be doing. How did you comfort the man you loved when his wife and child had been shot in front of both of you? Christ, caring was a shitty thing to subject one's self to.

It was the little quip, _forget I said anything_ that did it. John was out of his chair, hands fisted in the lapels of Sherlock's suit coat, abruptly shoving him back until he hit the wall beside their coats. Their faces were a breath away from one another as John held him there, breathing roughly, pain and anger twisting him into knots. 

"Don't you dare just shut me out! Don't shut me out like that! I'm fucking _trying_ here Sherlock! Don't!" 

Sherlock couldn't have been more startled if John had struck him instead. He blinked in the same way he had when John had asked him to be his best man. Thirty long seconds ticked by before Sherlock's hands came up and wrapped around John's hips on either side. His voice was gentle as he looked at him. 

"I'm not trying to shut you out. I was trying to back off and give you your space. I don't know what you need from me right now. You're talking about caring not being an advantage and shutting that side of you down and I tried to clarify where that left us... and- it's too soon to try to quantify. I'd not meant to push or shut you out either one, John."

John stared at Sherlock, holding tight to his coat. He was somewhere between throwing blows and screaming until his throat bled. Instead, John exhaled after a few moments and tipped his head to Sherlock's chest, right between where he had hold of him, closing his eyes as his breathing shook in and out of his lungs. 

"Don't back off," he managed, "I- don't back off." 

Sherlock's arms slid around John's waist, pulling him flush against him. A soft kiss was pressed to the top of John's head as they stood there. "Alright, no backing off. Forgive me. I'm trying, John. I am, however, decidedly an idiot when it comes to these matters."

John clung to Sherlock's coat, hiding his face against Sherlock's chest. "I'm going mad, I… don't you dare send me away, don't..." He gave Sherlock a hard shake, virtually vibrating with pent up energy.

Sherlock let out a small sound of surprise. "I'll never send you away. Never, John. Not now, not ever." His thumbs massaged small circles on John's hips. "I swear I won't."

John shook him again, breathing rough and haggard. His mind was pulling him in a thousand different directions and he could not make himself move, other than to rough handle Sherlock.

Sherlock had no clue what to do in that moment, but to allow John to do what he needed. He kept his hands on him and whispered, "Whatever you need that I can provide, I don't care what it is... I'll do it."

John shouted at him then, nearly incoherent, shoving him back hard against the wall. "WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME!" John dragged in a desperate breath, "I WOULD NEVER HAVE LOST-"

He shoved back away from Sherlock, balling up his fists, thrumming with anger blanketing his bleeding heart.

Sherlock stared at him. "Leave you? When? Yesterday morning? Or are you blaming me for meeting her in the first place?" His voice was as quiet as John's was loud.

John tore at his hair and spun on his heel, going for his shoes. He needed a fight, a bloody, violent fight, and he knew just the pub to stalk to.

"I should never have met her," he shouted as he searched for them, "I should NEVER HAVE MET HER!"

Sherlock grabbed John and shoved him against the wall. "Blame me all you want to. I did what I had to do to make sure you didn't _die_. My world does not exist without you in it. It's grey and brown and so fucking _dull_ without you I refuse to live without you. So if you're spoiling for such a fight..." He shoved away from the wall and tapped his cheek.

John charged at Sherlock, furious, grabbing him by the lapels and shoving him back. "Fuck that, Sherlock! I would have gone with you!" He dragged Sherlock off the wall and thumped him back against it. "She- Goddamn it!"

Sherlock's hands fisted in John's shirt. "I can't fix it! I can't. But I can be here for you... even if it's for you to beat to a bloody pulp if you need to."

"I don't want to fucking beat you!" He shoved away from Sherlock and grabbed his coat, forgetting he wasn't wearing any shoes.

"Then tell me what you do want from me!" Sherlock moved after him and pressed him against the wall just by the door. "You don't have any bloody shoes on!"

John tossed up his hands and shouted at him, "I DON'T _KNOW_!" He shoved his hands deep in his pockets to keep himself from striking Sherlock. He'd never hit that man again after putting him to the floor three fucking times right after he'd been tortured. His nails dug into his palms and he was grinding down on his teeth so hard they began to groan under the stress. 

"Then I'll tell you what I want." Sherlock's jaw worked. His voice was quiet again, even as he held John there. "I want you in my life, in my bed, now, always. I don't care how long it takes for us to be any semblance of 'okay' as long as we're together." Sherlock let go of John's shirt and stepped back. "I can't follow and intercede, but I can make sure one of Mycroft's men keeps you from getting into too much trouble. They'll take any excuse to send me away. Pub brawls most likely included."

John followed right along with Sherlock, reaching out and grabbing him. John pulled him down as he sank both his hands into Sherlock's hair just behind his ears and it was suddenly all John could do to keep his feet as he kissed Sherlock full on, pushing him back against the wall. Tears slid down John’s cheeks as he pulled at Sherlock's hair just shy of painful. 

There was a small sound of surprise in Sherlock’s throat as his hands came up. His fingers wrapping tightly in John's shirt, pulling him even closer as he kissed back. He hardly dared breathe as they kissed. There was a hint of desperation to Sherlock's end, but also a tenderness most wouldn't think him capable of.

John's breathing was a mess. Well, all of him was a mess, honestly. He'd never kissed anyone while actively in tears before, and it felt _wrong_ and perfect and wonderful and horrible and he could not for the life of him let Sherlock go, shifting to get closer, grabbing at him with frantic energy. 

The coat was yanked from John's hands and wriggled out of before Sherlock was hauling John back against him. Sherlock's hands were everywhere, gliding over and caressing John. It was rough and raw and _perfect_. An arm slipped around John's waist, hand splayed against his back and side. There was a sound that was almost a whimper from Sherlock as he kept kissing John, breathing ragged.

John leaned his weight into Sherlock, pushing at him like he wanted free, only keeping too tight a grip for Sherlock to go anywhere. His mind was screaming at him to stop, that it was too soon, too crass, and he did not care at all. He went at Sherlock, all teeth and tongue and harsh grip, stopping for a moment to nearly shout into Sherlock's mouth before the anger bleed off slightly.

Sherlock groaned against John. It was too soon and not soon enough. Christ. He didn't want to move. He nipped at John's lower lip, desperate for the contact. 

Slowly John's energy shifted and soon enough he was simply clinging to Sherlock, breathing chaotically against his shirt. As the frantic edge faded, his grief returned and he shook his head, virtually trying to climb inside Sherlock, seemingly unable to get close enough for comfort.

Sherlock rested his head against John's, his whisper gentle. "Let's go lie down." He rubbed John's back in slow, gentle motions. "Let's just go lie down." All Sherlock wanted was to comfort him.

John held tight to Sherlock's shirt and would have been inside his coat at that point had Sherlock left it on. He was trying with such determination to get closer that he was tangling their legs even as they stood there, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they were in danger of toppling over. His hands were busy rucking Sherlock's shirt up out of his trousers, fingers scrabbling to get to bare skin at Sherlock's back, all the while losing little clipped sounds of panicked distress. 

Moving his fingers to unbutton his shirt as swiftly as was possible, Sherlock let John go. The dress shirt was shed, leaving Sherlock bare from the waist up for John. Whatever John needed Sherlock would provide. It did not matter. Sherlock kept moving back, taking John with him, aiming for the bedroom. He had no idea what was going to happen, but he was trying to keep them from falling.

By the time they made it to the bedroom, John was melded to Sherlock, pressed as close against him as he could get, both of them falling back to the bed when John's knees buckled at the mattress. His hands were frantic, pulling at Sherlock blindly, no thought in his mind besides _help me_ , grabbing at Sherlock like a man drowning, his breathing chaotic as tears slid down his face, more out of control of himself than he'd ever been in the whole of his life. 

Sherlock was gentle as he eased John up on the mattress fully after a moment's struggle with getting a grip. His hands worked John's shirt off of him and he kicked off his shoes as he drew John in tightly against him. The skin to skin contact, he hoped, would help. Sherlock took up John's face and kissed him again. This time it was more drawn out, not as much teeth or desperation, a bid to calm John further.

As Sherlock began to kiss him again, John slowed down, the panicked tightness in his chest backing off slightly at the warmth and shocking familiarity of the act, even though he'd never kissed Sherlock like this, sheltering him from the storm. His chest heaved under Sherlock, and John slowly began to relax the center of his back, becoming slightly more pliant under Sherlock.

Sherlock had had lovers, men and women, in the past... but it had all been about biological urges. His experiences with Redbeard and then Mycroft's broken heart in university had been very effective in making sure he'd never involved feelings in any of it. This was new and beautiful, despite the horrible circumstances behind it.

His hand ran down John's side in a tender stroke before wrapping at his hip. Still he continued with the kiss, seeking to soothe and comfort John, whom he loved with such intensity.

The touch activated a sharp, cutting memory, one that just weeks ago had been warm and comforting. Mary's face swam to the front of his mind, quirked in that delighted smirk, hair mussed and skin shining in the low light of their bedroom. 

_What? Does that tickle? Are you ticklish, my John? Oh, you're in for it._

John broke away from the kiss a moment later, chest heaving as he tried to breathe, dragging one hand away from Sherlock to press over his eyes, upsetting the worn track of tears and sending them threading between his fingers instead. He still had tight hold of Sherlock at his belt loops. He whimpered as he tried to catch his breathing back, suddenly dropping his hand from his eyes and shoving the side of his fist in his mouth, shouting around his knuckles as he began to sob, wrapping his leg around the back of Sherlock's knee to keep him from drawing away, desperately needing him there. 

Sherlock tipped his head down to John’s and rested it there. He did not speak, only moved his head now and again, gentle nuzzles to remind John he was there and not going anywhere. They stayed like that, Sherlock pressed close to John, unwilling to let him go at all even if John had not been so desperate in his bid to keep Sherlock against him.

John could not catch his breath back, soaking in guilt and the screaming desperation for comfort, needing it all to fucking _stop_. "Help," he managed, grabbing back at Sherlock, pulling at him before shifting underneath him from pure emotional distress and the need to move, "help, please, god help." 

Oh that _hurt_ , not that John needed or wanted help, just the desperation in his voice. Sherlock kissed across his brow. "I've got you, John. I have you and I'm not letting go." He didn't know what John needed and he doubted John did either, so Sherlock kissed him again, hands firm on his chest, just exploring him in a gentle manner John could push away from if he needed to.

John yielded under Sherlock, breathing harsh and wrecked around the kiss, occasionally drawing his lips back to breathe when his nose failed to be an option. His mind was chaos and he could not quiet himself, heart racing from sheer fear of being so out of control. Going home and saying goodbye to them again had been too much, pushed him too damn far and he was collapsing under the weight of it, desperately trying to focus on Sherlock. 

Sherlock pulled back just enough to look down at John. "John, with me? Stay with me. I've got you." What was he meant to do? The pain felt like it was going to rend him in two. "What can I do? John... please, anything."

John reached up and sank his fingers in his own hair, shaking his head as he cried, "I don't know! I don't-" he sucked in a sharp breath and tried to speak to Sherlock in something close to coherent thought. "I can't… it's all… _help me_ ," he sobbed, failing to explain the chaos in his mind, physically aching with the pain of it. 

Sherlock swore softly and shucked out of his trousers, flinging them across the room before working John's open and then off. He stretched out beside John, pulling him back into his arms, one leg hooked over John's his arm around John's waist and splayed over his back. The kiss was tender as he pressed them together, kissing to drive everything else away from John, wanting to blank his mind for him.

Sherlock felt like home, and _Jesus_ did he need that. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's back, holding on to him as though there was nothing else on earth outside of him. His heart galloped behind his ribs and set his body uncomfortably pulsing everywhere, down between his toes and along the shells of his ears. 

And then Sherlock's lips were on his again, and they were sharing the same air, the same grief, the same physical space and it drove the thought of alone back to a safer distance. John shivered hard in his arms and struggled to put his focus to the warmth between them, to the way Sherlock's mouth felt so horrifically right against his own, sternly slamming down on any thoughts of moral propriety or any other such thing that had never done him a goddamn bit of good. 

There were no societal standards for this sort of thing. Though it had been non-sexual and hell, without even kissing before Mary died as the three of them tried to settle into it, Sherlock and John had been in a relationship that Mary acknowledged and encouraged. All of that in the back of his mind for a moment, Sherlock allowed John's response to him to drive everything it all out. It wasn't as though there were a playbook for this and he was going to try to make John forget for a little while, to grant him a reprieve from the crashing inside him.

A broad hand explored John's back as he kissed and then mouthed along his jaw to his neck. His teeth grazed there as he still held them close.

John's breathing slowed somewhat as Sherlock moved around him, tears sliding down his cheeks, dripping into his hair, though he was not so panicked as before. He wrapped around Sherlock as much as he could, clinging and just allowing Sherlock to move them. 

"It _hurts_ ," he cried, speaking of his heart and his mind, wrapping his leg over the back of Sherlock's as he drew him down tighter against him, never satisfied with how close they were. 

“I know,” Sherlock whispered as he pressed them close, the blankets drawn up over them. “It’s going to, but I’m right here to help you share that burden, John. I’m not going to let you down.”

John's arms slid up under Sherlock's, wrapping up around his shoulders, clinging to him desperately as he pressed his face to the side of Sherlock's neck. He was utterly exhausted, worn thin by the day and the constant conflict and shifting in his mind. Walls shooting up, only to crumble to ash minutes later left him feeling a mess, and frankly a bit mental, and now all he wanted was to hide in Sherlock's closeness and sleep for days. 

"I want a drink or...I n-need something, I need _something_ I can't c-calm the fuck _down_!" He nearly shouted against Sherlock's neck, the words muffled in the shelter of him. "Sh-Sherlock," he breathed again, breaking into tears all over. 

Sherlock bit the join of neck and shoulder sucking up a mark there as he pressed against him, a claim, a promise, everything rolled into one. "We have a very good bottle of Macallan in there. Would you like one?" He did not cease his nuzzles or touches for fear John would slip away entirely into the grief. "Or I can..." Fuck, what? What was there to do? 

John turned his head to the side, angling his jaw up and exposing his throat as he hissed at the feel of it. He'd never had a partner in any sense that was so much bigger than him and for the moment, it was exactly what he needed, shrouded under Sherlock as he was. He reached for Sherlock's arms, following them down until their hands brushed together and John laced their fingers, squeezing tight, his own hands trembling horribly. 

John's response and non-answer was enough for him. Sherlock was gentle as he eased John onto his back, drawing his hands next to his head, holding him, fingers twined. He nipped his way down John's throat and across his chest, marking him again opposite his scar, teeth and tongue working on him to draw pleasure out of him.

John sobbed even as he arched up into Sherlock's touch, squeezing Sherlock's fingers. He turned his face to the side so that his nose was brushing along Sherlock's wrist, teeth catching the knuckle of Sherlock's thumb as his lips rested against his own where their fingers were laced. He was caught in a hurricane and Sherlock was his anchor while the chaos tore up the air around them. 

Sherlock kept his movements easy and steady as he continued his ministrations. He bit and licked and kissed at John as they lay there. Anywhere Sherlock could reach without letting go of John's hands, he went to. The tall man stretched down and mouthed along the line of John's pants. He was everywhere, kissing and licking, not stopping, just needing to take care of John in the only way that seemed to be working.

John snapped back to himself then, pulling Sherlock back up with a whispered "No," shaking his head and untangling their fingers. he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, burying his face under Sherlock's chin, dizzy with sensation and change. He kept himself adhered to Sherlock's chest. "I… I c-can't… I… please don't be angry," he pleaded as he sank one hand into Sherlock's curls.

Sherlock shook his head, "God no, no. John, no. I could never be angry with you." He tucked his face against John's head. "This isn't- not about that. It was about giving you something to hang on to. Sensations to give you a place to go rather than shaking out of your skin." His words were whispered and gentle. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." He was doing the best he could, just trying to keep John as even as he could.

"Didn't," John whispered back, shaking his head and burrowing under Sherlock as much as he could. He was so far away from arousal it was a wonder he was ever in his life capable of such a thing. Sherlock surrounding him with physical affection, however, had been a good focus for a short time. He shivered hard and closed his eyes, trying to relax. 

"Tell… tell me it's going to get better. Just… tell me it will be better than this someday." 

Sherlock's words were sure on the heels of his question. "It will, it's going to. Some days you're going to slide back to it, but it will get better. This isn't how it will be. Time will pass, this will ease, and life will inexplicably keep moving until one day you realize you're living again."

John clung to Sherlock, nodding, not quite believing him. He closed his eyes and drew in slow, deep breaths as steady as he could. He was quiet for a long time, just listening to Sherlock's heart beating, breathing with him. As sleep crept up on him, weighing his eyelids heavy and making his mind slow down, he quietly whispered in the darkness. "I'm sorry I yelled at you. This… this isn't your fault. I shouldn't… I was spoiling for a fight and… god I'm sorry." 

"It's alright, we're alright. It's going to happen." Sherlock's words were soft as he kissed John's head. "Just keep breathing, in and out, slow and deep. It's going to settle... it will settle. Like all things, it is just going to take time."

John eventually fell down into sleep, his grip on Sherlock slowly going lax, sheer mental exhaustion getting the better of him. 

Not an hour after he dropped out, Sherlock's mobile buzzed with a text from his brother. 

Sherlock swore softly as he got to his mobile and read the message. 

_We have a situation. M_


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch, lots of ouch. Thanks for waiting on us despite the delay. Still working mostly by myself.
> 
> As always thanks to our lovely betas Vilestrumpet and beltainefaerie.
> 
> To Stitchy for the beautiful art in this chapter that those of you who follow on Tumblr have been seeing for a while as the cover art... Now you get to have context.

Sherlock’s thumb swiped over the phone as he answered.

_What's the situation? S_

In response, Sherlock received a text full of pictures taken by air, obviously from Mycroft's phone. At the same time, there was a loud knocking downstairs. 

_Obviously I am taking you and John, along with Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Hooper, into my custody._

The pool where John and Sherlock first confronted James Moriarty was now, as the picture showed, a smouldering pile of ash. St. Bart's had its side blown out from where Sherlock had jumped. Mary and John's home followed, ablaze with white, accelerant fueled flames. 

Sherlock stared at the pictures for a moment before he responded.

_Is that you or yours knocking? Because if not, we're using the fire escape and I'll rescue Mrs. Hudson._

Sherlock was on the defensive, not yet waking John as he crept to the wardrobe where the bokken he'd tried to take John's ankles out with was stored, it was only a wooden practice sword, but given the right amount of surprise, it would work well.

The text was just on the heels of Sherlock's question, sirens starting to kick up over London as another explosion, this one much closer, rocked through the quiet night. 

_Mine. All has occurred in the last fifteen. Haste, brother. M_

John shot out of the bed as vehicle alarms began to sound off, the walls rattled with the last detonation. His hand went to his hip where he typically stored his sidearm, looking wildly around in confusion. 

"Clothes, now. Everything's gone pear-shaped. Bart's, pool, your house, all up in flames and something else has just gone. All in the last fifteen. Move it." Sherlock's voice was clipped, falling back to his persona from his days taking down Moriarty's web. He was already pulling on trousers from the bottom of his drawer. Not his normal suit, Sherlock was equipping for battle should the need arise. He shoved his phone in the pocket of the tactical trousers and fished around until he found the long-sleeved black tee.

John swore and began to pull on clothes, loathing that he did not have his weapon. He was dressed in the same clothes as the day, rushing out into the sitting room and gathering his shoes and putting them on, finding his fingers shaking as he struggled with the laces. He stared at his hands for a moment, puzzled with that reality. Under pressure, his hands _did not shake_. 

In the next moment, John's hearing was gone. He'd been thrown hard to his side, ears ringing, ash and fire clouding his vision. He blinked, struck dumb for a moment from the shock of it, startling hard as a secondary explosion followed seconds later. He pushed the detritus off himself, numb and dazed, intent on heading back for Sherlock. The entire wall where the fireplace had been was gone, crumbled to nothing, flames licking up between the fallen bricks. 

John stumbled over the wreckage, calling out for Sherlock though he could not hear his own voice, staggering and choking on the smoke. 

Sherlock had been heading into the hall when the explosion rocked Baker Street. He was screaming for John, coughing in the smoke. He made it to the kitchen and blundered into John, wrapping his arm around him. "Downstairs! Out!" The man pushed on John as he grabbed both their coats from the rack by the door. 

The blast hadn't been as bad toward the bedroom. Sherlock had no time to assess John as he tried to get them both down the stairs and look for Mrs. Hudson.

John was full on choking as they mostly fell down the stairs, though he cut right, crashing right into Mrs. Hudson. He could not hear her, but he grabbed her and dragged them through her apartment as the main entrance was ablaze. It wasn't until the three of them were on the street that it was clear that Speedy's had been blown to bits. 

John let her go, staggering hard to the side, grabbing hold of the fencing to keep himself upright. He was bleeding freely from the side of his face, both ears leaking as well, wheezing as he tried to catch a full breath. Baker Street was swiftly becoming active as neighbours came flooding out in panic, a quick crowd growing. 

Sherlock checked Mrs. Hudson over, grateful she seemed to be okay. His face was thunderous as he looked around. Who dared come after more of his family? 

John was in his arms in the next moment as he pressed his shirt sleeve to John's head, his coat settled over Mrs. Hudson's shoulders. "John? Can you hear me at all?"

"NO GOOD, CAN'T HEAR YOU," John bellowed back, obviously clueless as to how unnecessarily loud he was being. He pulled back from Sherlock, staggering over to Mrs. Hudson, his balance shot to shit by the loss of his eardrums. Fucking _Christ_ he hated bombers. 

He insisted on looking at her himself, taking three solid, firm steps forward before his knees abruptly buckled, making him swear as he hit the pavement, kneeling there with his head swimming. He was abruptly grabbed by two men in expensive suits, though in his confusion it was lost on him that they were obviously Mycroft's. He roared in anger, tearing his arm away from one of them, landing a solid blow to the man who kept hold of him, struggling to get away as thick smoke began to roll down the street. 

Sherlock rushed to John's side, wrapping a hand around his wrist. He shook his head and pointed at the men then to himself. "John!" The soldier in John had taken over and Sherlock tried to get his attention away from the men and on him. This was going from bad to worse.

John had been drawing back to swing again, dizzy and disoriented, when his wrist was caught and his attention redirected. He looked up, seeing Sherlock's face swimming above him, swiftly going still in the presence of the man. 

Mrs. Hudson was at the back, her hands over her dirty face, eyes wide and frightened. She was gently led by one of Mycroft's men into a car, calling out to Sherlock as her fear got the best of her. Men in suits with coiled buds in their ears had never been a good thing for her in the past. "Sherlock! Is it alright to go with them?"

"Mycroft's!" Sherlock called to her. "He's investigating. Go!" He pulled his phone out and quickly swiped in a message for John. 

_Mycroft's men. Let's go._

He held the mobile up for John. Watching for understanding. "He can't hear you. He was closest to the blast." Sherlock informed the men trying to get them in the cars.

John narrowed his eyes in an attempt to read the screen, shaking his head as he got up to his feet, grabbing at Sherlock's shirt to keep himself steady. He wrenched his hand away from the other man, who let him go now that he was up on his feet. John didn't damn well care who the man was, he wasn't Sherlock and Sherlock was about the only person on the planet right now who John would consent to handling him. He leaned into Sherlock, "WE SHOULD GET OUT OF HERE!" 

Sherlock pushed a finger to John's lips in an effort to quiet him down as he herded him toward the car. There was a rough kiss pressed to John's temple in reassurance. Mrs. Hudson budged over and they collapsed into the seat there, the men climbing in and speeding them away from the scene. Sherlock finally thought to text Mycroft.

_With yours. Don't know what they've told you, 221 blown up. Mrs. Hudson, John, and I accounted for. S_

John leaned against the window, closing his eyes as the car sped down the road. He was, for the moment, disappointed to have been so close to the explosion, and yet still breathing. His head pulsed with his heart and he was making a mess of the window, starting to shake in earnest now that there was blood on his hands and the adrenaline began to subside. 

Mycroft replied to his brother. 

_Yes, and the facade house in Lenister Gardens is gone, as are the flats on either side, and someone is picking off your homeless network. The Yard is tracking an active shooter, but so far nothing. Meeting at the safe house, London isn't secure._

_Christ_ , Sherlock thought to himself as he read the message over again several times. He stowed the phone and took off his shirt. The tap to John was gentle and he pressed the shirt to his head. He cupped his cheek, stroking over his cheekbone with his thumb. There was a soft kiss pressed to John's forehead before Sherlock drew back to look at him. 

Worry was written all over Sherlock's face. He didn't know how much damage there actually was to John.

Sherlock leaned his head against John's in a tender touch. He closed his eyes, gathering himself for a moment before he sat up and answered Mrs. Hudson. "Someone is taking out everything I have had a hand in. Places I was with Moriarty, places I have owned or lived... I don't know, Mrs. Hudson. People are dying because of me."

She wrung her hands, going quiet, staring out the window in obvious shock. 

John suddenly was moving with Sherlock, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him in close as it dawned on him how very lucky they were to be alive, how fortunate he was to still have Sherlock. He was making a mess of him, and his own hands were getting cold, but he still plastered himself to Sherlock's side. 

"He's a bomber," John slurred in heavy Pashto, leaning his weight against Sherlock as his vision began to tunnel, "should watch the sides of the road. Tell… tell the driver… watch..." he closed his mouth as his stomach rolled, shaking against Sherlock's side. 

Sherlock snapped at the driver. "Watch the sides of the road, we're dealing with a bomber, but for God's sake, John needs medical attention. We have to hurry." He knew what a demand it was and likely that Mycroft had sent some of his best after Sherlock. He held John close. "Mrs. Hudson, see if there is water anywhere in here. I need to clean John's cuts. Is there anything for him to sick up in? I'm afraid he might."

John's hair was smoothed back from his head in a very gentle manner. "John, gods..." And John couldn't even hear him.

Mrs. Hudson moved then, shaken out of her fear. She slid over, right across from John, leaning in to look at him. "My husband was always in some sort of row or another, always getting himself into trouble that man. Here can I just," she reached for John's trembling hands, persisting even as he yanked them away, seemingly hyper-focused on Sherlock. 

She reached up and gently turned his face towards her, tutting as she looked at his eyes. "Something caught him properly across his head, poor dear. Here," she slid Sherlock's Belstaff off and handed it to him to put over John, reaching back and taking the water from the men up front. 

"Don't let him drink this yet, Sherlock," she said quietly as she stared at John's face, moving the shirt Sherlock had pressed to the side of his head to better stop the worst of the bleeding. “Don’t want him sicking up on us if he’s got a proper head injury.” 

John stared at her, his free hand reaching down and clutching at Sherlock's trousers. "Did… where are we going? Do you know where we're going? Where..." he was oblivious to himself, just clinging to Sherlock and narrowly tolerating Mrs. Hudson's hands on him. 

"Are you hearing again?" Sherlock asked as he looked at John. "Mycroft, safe house. London's- London's well fucked for us right now. Sorry, Mrs. Hudson." He closed his eyes for a moment as Mrs. Hudson attended to John before he opened his eyes again. "Molly and Lestrade- Mycroft was trying to get them out."

John stared ahead, occasionally fixating on Mrs. Hudson, keeping his grip in Sherlock's trousers. He did not respond at all, finally giving up and closing his eyes, only to have Mrs. Hudson lean forward and shake him. 

The car abruptly pulled off the road and parked, shutting off the engine just outside of the city near nothing in particular. John's eyes shot open, suddenly very worried about having gotten in the car in the first place. He looked around frantically, not hearing the helicopter overhead. 

_I'm told some of you are wounded. I'm taking you with me. M_

Sherlock made John look at him, pointed up and circled his finger. "Mycroft." He said, hoping John at least understood what the hell was going on. They were guided out of the car, Sherlock making sure John was wrapped tightly in his Belstaff. He left Mrs. Hudson to Mycroft's men, trusting them to get her on the helicopter.

Mycroft scowled at the appearance of the lot of them, though his baby brother had him the most concerned. He said nothing as they took off, handing Sherlock and John each a blanket, though John did not reach towards him. "His eardrums?" He asked, noting the drying blood pooled in John's ears and running down the sides of his face.

Mrs. Hudson was taken with the window, never having flown anywhere before. She covered her lips and stared out, ignoring the men. 

Sherlock nodded, "Something clipped his head too. Concussed I think." He draped one blanket around the both of their shoulders and then covered their fronts with the other. "What the _fuck_ is going on, Mycroft?"

Mycroft cleared his throat and looked to Mrs. Hudson, assuring that she was not paying attention before addressing his brother. "Ah, Yes, well. I may have taken something from Sebastian Moran one time too many." 

He'd never considered the possibility of this sort of reaction. Not from a hired gun, though clearly he'd misjudged Moran's position. "At least, that is my strongest suspicion at present."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Oh god." He nodded and opened his eyes again. "Discussion on hold until we are safe. Christ. Right, plans after we get to the safe house? Are Mummy and Father alright? Molly, Lestrade? What about Mar-" Sherlock swore colorfully in five different languages before he calmed himself down again. In the heart of the moment, of worrying about everyone... he'd forgotten they were in the ground not twenty feet from his own grave.

Mycroft raised a hand to calm his brother. 

"Mummy and Father are in Tennessee gallivanting at some place called Dollywood, God help us. Lestrade has refused to leave the Yard, though is aware of the danger. We are tracking Molly Hooper. You've protected Mrs. Hudson. Should he be going to sleep?" 

John's eyes were closed, leaning in heavily against Sherlock in the safety of the helicopter. He had never been shot down before, so he always associated the feel of flying with protection, and now that his hearing was gone and his guard down, John was falling asleep.

"John!" Sherlock shook him back awake and pointed to his head. "No, no sleeping yet. Christ. I cannot lose you." There was a hint of desperation in Sherlock's voice as he said that. Terror shot through him at the thought of putting John in the ground next to Mary and Elizabeth.

It was a struggle over the next minute for Sherlock to keep from falling into a full fledged panic. His breathing was tight and controlled as he looked at John. John who was very much alive, albeit a bit beaten up, and beside him.

John cracked his eyes open, shaking his head and trying to move away, not wanting to wake up. He rested his head on the seat away from Sherlock, wrapping his arms tightly around himself and shivering. 

Mycroft looked at his watch and glanced out the window. "Ten minutes more and we will be there." 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and tugged him back, stroking over the back of his neck. "John, stay awake for me." Now that he was no longer in control and someone else was handling things, Sherlock was coming down, crashing hard. He scrubbed a hand over his face.

When they finally landed, Mrs. Hudson was met by Anthea and Mycroft's lead home attendant, another older woman who kindly offered her a proper dressing gown and began to usher her inside the well protected estate on property surrounded by nothing but open fields. Mycroft moved himself out of the helicopter, watching the pair of them, holding the medics off seeing how John had been reacting to anyone outside of Sherlock touching him. 

John moved slowly, sluggishly trying to stand up. He grabbed at Sherlock, feeling sick. "Don't leave me," he whispered, struggling to keep his eyes open. 

"Never." Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's head and, making sure the coat and a blanket were around John, picked him up. He'd worked hard to regain the muscle mass he'd lost while sick. While Sherlock wasn't quite there again, he could carry John off the helicopter, still bare from the waist up after using his tee on John's head. 

"We'll have to set up talking wherever he is. I'm not letting him out of my sight." Sherlock wasn't even aware he'd been nicked up and had a burn on the back of one shoulder. Nothing serious, but that burn would sting eventually.

Mycroft followed behind his brother, frowning at how similar his back looked now as when he plucked him out of Serbia. He watched as John slowly blacked out in Sherlock's arms and in the next moment was pointing at the medics, a hand to the small of his brother's back. "Let them help," he said firmly as men came forward to take John. 

Sherlock nearly snarled at them, in that moment resembling a wild cornered dog. Only Mycroft's hand and words saved them from attack. He might have had his arms full of John, but he certainly wasn't incapable of a fight if it came to it... These men were helpful and Sherlock took in a deep breath, letting them take John. He watched them, hands balled by his sides.

Mycroft took Sherlock by the hand without a word, keeping his grip and following behind John. He kept Sherlock at something of a distance, despising the sight of his brother covered in soot, sweat, and blood once more. All he needed was overly long unkempt hair and the look would be complete. John was taken into medical, but Mycroft stilled Sherlock, shaking his head and pulling him along to the residential area. "You're hurt, let me see to you."

Sherlock scowled at Mycroft. "No- I'm fine, Mycroft. Let me to John." The truth was he was too tired to fight against it though. He allowed Mycroft to tug him along, down the hall to where he could check Sherlock over. "We were- I'd just gotten him to sleep maybe an hour before. Comfortable and in bed."

Mycroft nodded, leading him to a spacious bathroom and closing the door behind them. He moved Sherlock to sit on the edge of a large tub, stripping off his own suit coat and rolling up his shirt sleeves. He leaned over and turned on the taps, gathering a flannel and wetting it before gently sliding it over Sherlock's back. He was quiet as he worked, exposing all the shallow nicks and cuts that flying debris had sliced across his skin, avoiding the burn for the moment. As he cared for Sherlock's back, he braced an arm across Sherlock's chest for him to lean against, loathing everything about this. 

"On a good note, I've fed enough to MI5 to remove your tracking bracelet, your terms of probation are hereby terminated and you are, once again, a free man. The counter to that, is the exposure of lingering or, god forbid, new eyes inside of the Ministry. I handed over Richard Moriarty's name yesterday." 

He eased back, collecting a new flannel and warming it with water before crouching in front of his brother, cleaning the blood off his sibling's face. All John's, in the end. He set the cloth aside, breathing in relief that Sherlock was not severely wounded, speaking in very soft French to him. 

"I am sorry, Sherlock. I had no idea removing Richard from Moran would have such an explosive outcome. Moran was _torturing him_ , there seemed to be no… no affection. I honestly did not think he would care that I had taken Richard. From what I can gather now, though, he oscillated between believing Richard was Jim and taking it out on Richard that Jim is dead. I-" he cleared his throat and nodded, getting to his full height and looking down at Sherlock, speaking in English once more. "That burn needs tending."

Sherlock shifted and looked over his shoulder. "I don't recall being burned. It didn't start hurting until you started cleaning me up. He likely tortured him since he didn't have his brother to do so with." He rubbed his face before letting out a sigh. "Shall we walk to medical then?"

Mycroft shook his head, pointing to the tub. "No, you should shower and I'll fetch your clothes. Give them a chance to help him, you need to take care of yourself. He's… I owe him my gratitude, but he is not doing you any favours at present, brother."

"Get out. Just get out." Sherlock snarled at Mycroft. The look on his face was dangerous. "Out!" 

Mycroft left him alone, waiting outside the door for one of his people to bring the clothes he constantly carted about for Sherlock, though he insisted that Mycroft did not care for him. Mycroft shook his head, sliding his hands in his pockets, itching for a cigarette. 

Clothes were delivered in the next ten minutes, and Mycroft began to pace close to the door, waiting for Sherlock to finish washing up, Mycroft's mind churning over the newest nightmare in the whole of it. Moriarty dying had seemed like such a positive step at the time.

Sherlock emerged in only a towel, going still when he remembered he'd bloody well left more than one possessive mark on John. He slid a hand over his face and groaned in an exasperated way. Well, _of course_ this would all happen and John would be lying somewhere like that. Sherlock let out a noise of frustration.

Mycroft arched a brow and drew in an audible breath through his nose. "Here," he handed over Sherlock's things, "I'd leave the shirt open, they'll want to look at that. There's been a bit of shouting so I imagine John is less than thrilled to be here. Dress and we'll go."

Sherlock took the clothes and disappeared again, shutting the door on Mycroft once more. He came back out, shirt on but unbuttoned and loose. "Don't talk about John not doing me any favours or anything else like that if it comes to mind." There was a moment of silence before Sherlock added a soft, French, "Please."

The French return was gentle in tone, though firm in language. "It will never cease to be my job to look out for you, Sherlock." 

They were not far from the little medical area, and the tone of John's voice made it clear he was still not hearing, panicked and slurred, no one speaking to him for obvious reasons. John had been in Sherlock's arms and then he'd woken to strange faces, without his hearing, men holding his hands down and keeping his head still. Had he not been concussed, it would have been obvious what was occurring, but taxed as he was before the explosions, followed by a mild head injury, and he was a ball of panicked rage by the time Sherlock and Mycroft walked in.

Sherlock rushed to John's side, taking his face into his hands. His touches were tender as he looked down at him. "John. I know you can't hear me but you can see me." A finger went to John's lip before it was followed by a brief brush of Sherlock's lips. He straightened back up as he gazed at John. "Okay?" Sherlock hoped the short word would be recognizable.

John's focus snapped to Sherlock in panic, though he went very still and quiet as Sherlock kissed him. 

Mycroft hung in the background, deeply, deeply relieved to see that _finally_ come to a head between the two. He cleared his throat and stepped back into the hall, leaving them to the medical staff for the moment. 

John rolled his shoulder, trying to get his hand free, shouting at them again to let him go, he wanted _Sherlock_. 

Sherlock held up his hand to the medical staff. "Tell me what you need him to do. He is terrified and cannot hear right now. I'm sure you're all aware of the situation we've found ourselves in recently since you work for my brother. This is going to require finesse that I can help with, but you have to tell me what we need to do first."

He did not take his eyes off John. His other hand still cupping his cheek, thumb rubbing back and forth over his cheekbone. "I have you, John." He whispered.

The hands holding John's down moved away, hovering until John reached up and grabbed at Sherlock, keeping a tight hold of him. Then most of the staff stepped back, giving him space. 

"He's fine like that, he came awake fighting while we were stitching his head is all, he just needs to be still while we finish up here." 

John had other plans, already trying to use Sherlock's arms to pull himself up off the table, clambering to get closer to Sherlock and farther away from everyone else. 

Sherlock swore softly. He put a gentle hand to John's chest and then held up a finger. John's desperation twisted in Sherlock and he climbed up with John, shedding his shirt as he did. "I need you to look at this burn anyhow." He gathered John into his arms and held him close.

Being Mycroft's team, no one batted an eye. John went still enough for them to stitch, and a medic walked around Sherlock's back to see to the burn, saying nothing of Sherlock's extensive scars. 

Nobody made any attempt to move them apart at any time, just working around whatever they needed to. John clung to Sherlock, despising anyone else touching him, tolerating it for Sherlock's sake. When they were finally done with him, tending to his ears and placing cotton there to aid in healing and infection control, the doctor spoke quickly to Sherlock, who now sported a burn dressing on his back. "He's concussed, and we've not been able to get his shirt off him without him flying into a fit, so if you could get him to do that calmly, it would be ideal. Given the state of the fabric, I doubt there is anything serious, most likely minor. We'll leave you alone for half an hour or so."

Sherlock nodded at that. "I'll get it off of him if at all possible. Thank you." He pressed a kiss to John's temple. "Any idea when his hearing might start coming back?"

Most of the team had filed out, and the doctor leaned back in to to answer. "Twelve to twenty-four hours, which is how long he needs to be lying down at a severe minimum. Ideally three to five days, but… we know the odds of that." He slipped out, shutting the door behind him. 

John moved the moment the door closed, pulling Sherlock closer as he hid his face against his chest. 

Sherlock was tender as his hands came up and started undoing John's shirt. He tapped his chin in a gentle manner. When John looked up at him, Sherlock tugged on his shirt before moving to continue taking it off. "I want to check on you." He spoke softly, hoping that even if John couldn't understand him, he would take comfort in him speaking to him.

John allowed Sherlock to move his shirt, not giving a damn. Sherlock could do as he liked. John's mind had… done something to him, and he was now attached to Sherlock in an odd, detached coping mechanism that connected John to him in a way that had never happened before. It was as though critical parts of John's mind were shutting down, turning over to Sherlock, and utterly rejecting any other person.

Sherlock would worry about the way John was acting later. In that moment he needed to make sure John was physically okay. The shirt went into the chair by the bed. Sherlock eased the two of them down to the bed. He made sure to keep John in his arms.

John shifted close to Sherlock, cognizant only of the space between them, no mind to his own chest. He tucked right back in where he had been, hiding his face, pulling at Sherlock to bring him closer, much as he had been before Sherlock had managed to settle him earlier in the night.

Sherlock managed to hook the blanket at the bottom of the bed up and pull it over both of them. He kept John pressed close against him. A small kiss was pressed against the top of John's head. There was a small sigh from Sherlock as he relaxed with John safe in his arms.

John closed his eyes in the shelter of Sherlock, a thousand questions in his head all getting placed aside in the silence. He was knocked down to sensation alone. The smell of Sherlock and the gunpowder and ash still clinging to his own skin and hair, the feel of the blanket and Sherlock's arms, the growing warmth of their shared heat, the icy nature of his limbs in his state of quasi shock. 

A half hour later, the door opened and a medic came in, going to Sherlock's side and speaking quietly, despite the fact that John could not hear. "I take it he's okay otherwise? Mr. Holmes has asked me to inform you that your friends are on their way in, one is injured. We are going to need the room." 

Sherlock took in a sharp breath. "The woman or the man?" Lestrade- Lestrade was an officer, he accepted a certain amount of risk every day... but Molly." He looked up and nodded. "He appeared to be fine. He tucked up against me before I could truly check him over. I'll pull back the blanket and you can check his back before we leave. I'll carry him."

He was gentle as he peeled back the blanket and kissed John's forehead. Sherlock tilted John's head up to look at him. "We're going to move." He pointed to the door and kept his hold on John with the other hand.

John tightened his grip on Sherlock, pressing himself closer, pinching his eyes shut and clinging to Sherlock with enough strength that they would have to work to forcibly pry him off. 

The medic walked around to John's side and looked at him, shaking his head. "He looks like you, mostly, minus the burn. He's okay, needs washing. It's a woman, your brother has more details. Mr. Holmes has instructed me to send you back to the first room you were in, I'll take you there." 

Sherlock took in a shuddering breath. _Molly_. He looked at John and sighed. Time to make him upset it looked like. Sherlock pushed on John as he tried to sit up. John had to cooperate for this. There wasn't going to be any sedation and Molly needed the room.

John took in a sharp breath and looked up in confusion as _Sherlock_ began to push him away. He wrapped his arms tight around himself, always allowing Sherlock what he wanted and letting go as soon as Sherlock made an indication that he wanted John off of him. "Sherlock?" he whispered, looking around at the medic and then starting to sit up. His head spun and throbbed, but he wrenched his arm away from the helpful man, dropping his feet over the edge of the bed toward Sherlock. If Sherlock was leaving, so was John. 

Mycroft walked in then, still in rolled shirtsleeves, on the phone. "I see, yes, we are- yes." He looked up to his brother and spoke swiftly, "Lestrade has Molly, they are being flown in. She is stable but has been shot. Lestrade is unharmed from what I gather. They will be here in twenty minutes." 

Sherlock swore as he moved to John's side. He did not have time or the energy to yell about it. Sherlock slipped his arms under John's knees and kissed his forehead before scooping him off the bed. It took a minute to balance himself with John's weight without the aid of the earlier adrenaline push of getting off the helicopter.

He moved to the door, "Shot where? I want to know everything. People are going to pay for this." Sherlock was snarling as he thought of Sebastian Moran. He'd take him apart with his bare hands.

Mycroft walked beside Sherlock, pointedly not looking at John, irritated with the man's wildly inconvenient weakness. "I do not know, Lestrade was being rather vocal in the background and it was difficult to hear. She is stable, conscious, and talking. All good things. I will alert you when they are here. Might I suggest letting them put John to sleep?" 

"He has a head injury, Mycroft!" Sherlock was on edge, looking, once more, like a caged, feral animal. He was protective of John, nuzzling his head after he'd snapped at Mycroft. Sherlock's jaw jumped and twitched as he fought to keep everything at bay. The feeling of being cornered, trapped, was shoving him into a headspace he hadn't been in since before he'd come back from Serbia.

Sherlock was deeply troubling his brother, though London was burning and he absolutely had to go. "Right, alright. Sherlock I _must_ attend this situation, I cannot stay. Sherlock," he took his brother by the arm to still him a moment, making eye contact, "The staff here will all support you as they would me, they are not here to work against you. However, if you become..." he dropped his tongue to French, his voice swiftly less posh, more of what it had been in the minutes after liberating Sherlock, "if you become dangerous to these people they _will_ subdue you. Please, Sherlock, keep sight of who your allies are. No one here has the intent to lock you in or harm any of you. I will be accessible to you at all times." And then, as a swift near afterthought he added, "I love you," before letting him go and heading down the hall, his entourage swarming around him as they moved to leave. 

Sherlock stared after his brother for a few heartbeats before moving to the bedroom with John. They went straight into the bathroom where Sherlock was gentle as he eased John down on the toilet lid. He turned and turned on the taps before looking to John. Sherlock caught his attention and pointed to the tub and then the shower head.

"Which one?" 

He doubted John was able to stand, but he deserved the choice.

John pointed to the shower, slowly standing up on shaking legs. He managed his trousers with trembling fingers and shucked out of pants, not a care to being nude. Nothing Sherlock and a thousand other soldiers over the years hadn't seen. "What's happened? Something happened." His speech was heavy and slurred, and he had to brace himself against the wall to keep his feet. 

Sherlock stripped himself out of his clothing, following John into the shower. He dragged a couple of cloths with him. The body wash was located, some ridiculous and expensive stuff that Mycroft had stocked. Sherlock poured some on the cloth and without preamble, began to wash John. He was tender, gentle as he did, lingering over the few marks he'd left. 

"Molly has been shot and you can't hear me."

John leaned back against the wall, dizzy and nauseated. He could feel from where he was holding on the Sherlock's shoulder that the man was speaking in low baritone, though obviously he couldn't hear him. He closed his eyes and held on to Sherlock, knees shaking. 

"I'm sorry," he breathed, aware that he was off, that Sherlock was intensely stressed, and likely needed _John_ where John was incapable of being there entirely. 

Sherlock leaned in and pressed a kiss to John's temple. He drew back. "Don't be. Not that you can hear or would listen even if you could hear me." The washing continued in gentle, but almost a clinical manner. He urged John to turn and face the wall so he could wash John's back. Sherlock kept everything easy, helping to support John as they stood there.

John made it another five minutes before he whimpered as his knees went out from under him, nearly blacking out. "Sher-" he slurred before his tongue became too heavy for it. He shook his head, gasping at the pain that caused. 

Sherlock eased John down to the tub and switched the water to flow from the bath taps. He used a clean cloth to finish rinsing John. Movements were careful and easy as Sherlock hauled John from the tub and dried him, propped on the toilet lid as he was. Sherlock did not hesitate, using the last of his strength to haul John to the bed and get him tucked in under the warm duvet. The sheets were a ridiculous thread count and Sherlock was glad of the tenderness on John's skin.

John closed his eyes, reaching out and taking Sherlock's wrist. "Stay," he breathed, wanting Sherlock right next to him and nowhere else. His head was pounding and the room spinning, making his stomach roll, but he wanted to ensure Sherlock would be where he could find him. 

Sherlock touched his face and held up one finger. "One minute, John. I need my mobile." He made the gesture again. The pull out of John's grip was gentle and he retrieved his pants, sliding into them, before moving to the bed. Sherlock crawled into bed and touched John's side in a tender press of fingertips. He made himself comfortable before opening his arms to John, mobile held out of the way, intending to text Lestrade when John was settled. If Lestrade even still had hold of his mobile.

John latched right back onto Sherlock, ignoring how horribly the room lurched, wrapping his arms tight around Sherlock and burying his face against Sherlock's chest. He wasn't thinking, just acting. He knew that shit was breaking apart around him, and all he wanted in the world at the moment was Sherlock himself, and so that's as far as he got. He had nothing left for more than that.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, sending a message off to Lestrade.

_If you have your mobile, in bedroom just down the hall when things have settled, need updates on Molly, John unable to hear, concussed. SH_

He rubbed John's back in tender strokes as they rested in the bed.

John fell asleep within the space of three minutes, only wanting Sherlock and when he was sure he had him, there was nothing left to hang on for. He swiftly went lax, breathing slow and deep against Sherlock's chest. 

Lestrade's text was swift in return. 

_I pulled her out of her stack of flats, building was blown. Sniper was popping off shots and caught her across the head, ear is a mess but I think she's okay. London is a warzone. GL_

Sherlock closed his eyes. He had caused this. His games with Moriarty had all led to this. Christ. Sherlock rubbed a hand over his face before he sent a text. Glad John was asleep.

_We all owe you a debt of gratitude. SH_

Half an hour later, there was a knock at the door to the room Sherlock and John were in. "Sherlock?" Greg's voice floated through, and already the smell of gunpowder and petrol that clung to his clothes wafted in under the door. 

"Come in, John's asleep and can't hear us." When Greg came in Sherlock's nose wrinkled. "You reek, there's a shower in here. I haven't been here before. I don't know what's in the rest of the house, but you're welcome to this one... How is everything, you, Molly, all of it? Christ..."

Greg decided that he was absolutely not going to comment on the fact that John and Sherlock were in bed together. No. That wasn't going to happen. He stared at the floor, his ears still ringing. "We think it's stopped. Molly is… she's alright, they are stitching her ear back together and she's, I mean the building was down around her, but she's okay. Lucky really, considering. I'll see about the shower. Got to find clothes or something first or there's not much point. Oh," he stepped forward, pulling a ring of keys from his pocket, knuckles bloodied and hands filthy and smeared with blood, "give me your ankle."

Sherlock took Greg in and shifted. He'd read it in his face. "Oh honestly, did you people really think that I moved in with John and Mary for my _health_?" The duvet rustled as he stuck his leg out from under the cover for Greg. "Thank you, for saving her... I-" Sherlock took in a breath to steady himself. “I am truly sorry you lot have been caught up in this."

Greg was swift with the key and slid the bracelet off, leaving it blinking on the edge of the bed. He shoved his hands in his pockets, more subdued than usual. "If you are trying to take responsibility for a group of terrorists taking London down, I'm not going to listen to it. This is not your fault." He stepped back and headed for the door. "Molly needs her hand held, so I'll be there. I'll… I'm glad, about you and John. God knows he needs it. God knows you do too." 

"Go, I'll check on you as soon as I am able to move. He's not stable if I'm out of sight, still fairly bunged up from the hit to his head. Yeah, I'm glad too." Sherlock tucked his head against John's. "Tell Molly I'm thinking of her."

Greg shook his head, recognizing this mood of Sherlock's. "We are fine. Just lay there and for god's sake, let Mycroft get a handle on what's going on. Take care of John." 

He moved out of the room, leaving John and Sherlock in silence once more. 

Sherlock, left alone in the quiet with the warm weight of John on his chest, felt his eyes grow heavy. John was safe, Mrs. Hudson was safe, Lestrade was safe, and Molly was being mended. Mycroft was surrounded by people protecting him. With a soft sigh, Sherlock allowed himself to relax; he drifted to sleep holding John close.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock does not handle things as well as he should, Greg brings him back to order... Mycroft protects from afar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our betas are wonderful, beautiful people and I love them.  
> -Symphony

Two hours later, the mobile phones attached to Sherlock, Greg, and Mycroft all buzzed with a mass text. 

_Do I have your attention yet? -xx_

Sherlock startled when the phone buzzed in his hand. He scowled at the message. Rage flitted through him and his jaw clenched. The text he returned was short and to the point.

_What do you want? SH_

John's eyes snapped open when Sherlock startled and he grabbed at him, looking wildly around the room. 

The reply was delayed several minutes, sent only to Sherlock's mobile.

_Wrong brother, kiddo. -xx_

Sherlock's jaw tensed but he pressed a kiss to John's forehead. His thumb moved over his mobile in irritation.

_I am not a child. You tried to blow me up. What. Do. You. Want? SH_

The reply was right on the heels of Sherlock's text. 

_Don't flatter yourself. John was in the sitting, I blew him up. And Hooper. And Lestrade. Oh, and your pool, and your facade hidey hole, and that hospital, among others. Are you willing to hand me Big Brother in chains? If not, go play, the grownups are talking and I don't have time for you. -xx_

John pressed a hand over his face, exhausted and confused. He shifted closer, making himself smaller as he fitted better against Sherlock, not wanting him texting, but doing nothing to stop him. 

Sherlock stared at his screen before switching tactics and firing one off to Mycroft.

_What the hell is going on? Obviously you're busy with whatever it is this idiot wants. Other than you in chains. Inform me when you have a chance._

His phone was set aside and Sherlock tried to will himself back down, closing his eyes and attempting to go back to sleep.

John was on him the moment he set his mobile aside, reaching out and pulling him close. He had no idea what was on, but Sherlock was clearly upset. He ended up placing a kiss to Sherlock's chin as his aim was horrifically off, moving in the next moment to press his lips over Sherlock's, kissing him in an effort to comfort him.

Sherlock was somewhat startled at the sudden affection from John, but he wrapped his arms around him kissing back. His hand threaded into John's hair at the back of his head. The kiss was slow and gentle.

John hummed against Sherlock and parted his lips for him, sinking one of his hands in Sherlock's hair in return, dropping a leg over Sherlock's hip in order to fit closer. He shivered and tugged at Sherlock, never satisfied with how close they were, murmuring his affection with clipped little sounds from deep in his throat. 

Sherlock let out a small noise of contentment and pleasure into the kiss, deepening it with John, his own lips parting as he pressed them as close as he could. It was _good_ and it was _right_. He felt more at ease than he had in months. The reassurance that John was there, with him and safe, keeping him steady and relaxed. He tightened his grip slightly on John, needing to keep him close.

Sherlock's response was entirely settling for John, who had him pegged as his sole focus. He carefully paid attention to what Sherlock wanted from him, responding as well as he could, pulling at him as he moved to lay on his back, wanting Sherlock over him, knees falling to the sides to make space for him. 

Sherlock moved with him, settling himself between John's knees as he continued kissing him. His body language had shifted far away from the tense and angry way he'd found himself just minutes before. Sherlock nuzzled down along John's jaw, rumbling against him as he spoke where they were pressed together. "I love you."

He returned to John's mouth, pressing another kiss there, not even really aware of how undressed they were, just soaking up the attention and comfort he was finding in John's arms.

John wrapped up around him, finding immense comfort as Sherlock enveloped him. He shifted and tangled their legs together, savouring the feel of Sherlock on him. It was protection and calm, and he didn't care fuckall about anything else. He kept one hand in Sherlock's hair, the other sliding carefully down Sherlock's back. It was the most comfortable he'd been in ages, even with his ears blown out and his brain swelling. He broke away from Sherlock's mouth, working his way across Sherlock's jaw and down his neck. 

Sherlock's eyes dropped closed as he tilted his head for John, allowing him better access. He let out a soft moan, more from relaxation and the sense of calm and taken care of it was instilling in him than anything else. There was a soft hum from Sherlock as he pressed against John.

His mobile vibrated with a text that he ignored for a minute, leaning in to mouth over John's scar, pressing a tender kiss there. He nuzzled John's jaw before pressing a tender kiss to his lips. Sherlock leaned away, dragging his phone to him and shooting John an apologetic look as he opened the text.

_It would appear that Moran has found a new employer, who is very generous with his employees. He wants Richard, and he wants me. We are not communicating with Moran at the moment. The individual taunting you is his employer. M_

He read the text several times before swiping his thumb over the phone in reply.

_Noted. Keep me informed. He’s bloody well not getting you. S_

Mycroft responded in the next moment, texting him back. 

_No, but he has Richard now. M_

John curled down into the blankets and ignored Sherlock, knowing that he was discussing the bombings, and personally knowing that he did not have it in him to keep up or help. 

Sherlock put his free hand on John's head, tenderly stroking his hair. 

_Christ, this is insane. S_

Mycroft was delayed in replying, but when he did it was an actual phone call. John was oblivious to the ring as he lay there, face pressed to the bed, arms tight around himself. 

Sherlock answered the phone as he continued touching and stroking John's hair. "Mycroft, are you alright?"

Mycroft spoke quietly. "Yes, quite unharmed. There are clothes for the three of your friends, though not their own. I've released Richard now that I've secured your release. If Moran wants to torture him to insanity, so be it, the bombings have stopped. I do _not_ want you to reply to the individual texting us. I do not know who it is, though I've my suspicions. He will attempt to bait you, I need your word you will not be baited." 

John shifted and then sat up slowly, his eyes glassy and his cheeks overly pink. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, stood up, took two steps forward and then hit the ground. 

Sherlock swore as he moved off the bed. "John's collapsed, Mycroft." He tossed the phone, on speaker on the bed. "Speakerphone." He stepped into the hall and yelled for someone to come. Sherlock rushed to John's side, pulling the duvet off to cover him. "John? John!" His hand ran over John's back. "John, please!"

With his hearing shot, John answered overly loud. "NEED TO PISS," he shouted, more crass than his normal language, already trying to get up off the floor and seemingly heedless to his state of undress. His blown ears had wrecked his balance and he'd not realized he was going to the ground until he hit. 

Mycroft could be heard sighing his long suffering into the speaker. 

"Shut up, Mycroft." Sherlock snapped, annoyed. He was gentle as he hauled John to his feet. "Looks feverish. Christ. Give me a minute." The two of them made their way into the lav where Sherlock made John sit. He pointed a finger at him then held it up. _Stay, one minute._

A minute later found him in the hall with a medic meeting him. "Thermometer, he's in the toilet right now. Need to get him out and in bed again. He's feverish looking."

John managed to fall asleep right there on the toilet, relieved and exhausted, head tipped back and face to the ceiling. 

The medic left with understanding of Sherlock's request, promising to return shortly. 

"Just a moment, Mycroft." Sherlock slipped back in the lav and blinked, a small chuckle in his throat. He was tender as he shook John, waking him just enough to show he was moving him. Somehow he made it to the bed with him and got him tucked back in. "Okay. Right. What do you need from me other than don't get into trouble?"

Mycroft sighed. "Don't get into trouble' is typically a tall order for you, brother. That is, at present, all that I need from you." 

John looked up at Sherlock and reached out, grabbing Sherlock's wrist and holding tight before closing his eyes again. "DID YOU JUST WAKE ME UP ON THE DAMN TOILET?" he shouted, seemingly having issues with his volume control. Mycroft clicked his tongue and spoke again, "I'm going to leave you lot to...whatever it is I'm leaving you to." 

"Don't take that tone with me." The words were snapped, but an odd thread of affection wound through them. "Thank you, Mycroft."

Sherlock put his finger to John's lips. The 'shh' sign was obvious. "Bloody loud lout." Concern ran through Sherlock as he watched John though. He was off and Sherlock was worried it wasn't just the blow to the head.

John closed his eyes and smiled before relaxing, holding on to Sherlock's hand. 

The medic popped back in and handed Sherlock a thermometer, "Back in a moment," he said before swiftly dashing back out. John cracked an eye and looked at Sherlock in question. 

Sherlock held up the thermometer and pointed to John. "You're feverish, I think." His words were soft. John couldn't hear him, but Sherlock was going to carry on speaking to him.

John narrowed his eyes in confusion, but nodded before grabbing Sherlock's hand to pull him back into the bed, just wanting closeness. He didn't want the thing in his ear at all, but he he’d allow it. Sherlock clearly wanted him to. 

Sherlock climbed into the bed and pressed up against John's side. His hand stroked over John's chest, carefully avoiding the nicks and the bruises forming. He traced around one just under his left nipple the livid purple bright in the center and then fading out against his skin. His fingers moved along the outside edges of several smaller ones fanned across his ribs, giving John almost a dappled look.

John closed his eyes and was already drifting back down into sleep, breathing slightly faster than normal but otherwise simply holding on to Sherlock and waiting. Within a few seconds he managed to almost doze off, startling as his head dropped and blinking blurrily up to the ceiling as he dragged in a deep breath. "What?" He asked in confusion, still not hearing himself. 

Sherlock sighed and placed the thermometer in John’s ear. He clicked it and waited for it to read. A soft kiss was placed to John's head. The thermometer sounded and he closed his eyes. Damn it. 39. Sherlock slipped the thermometer from John's ear and set it aside.

John shifted closer to Sherlock, seeking him out even when he wasn't thinking on it, clumsily reaching for him and pressing his face to Sherlock's chest. He was already drifting away, clutching at Sherlock and shivering slightly. 

Sherlock's mobile chimed. 

_Did he die yet? -xx_

Sherlock scowled at the message, brows furrowing. He texted Lestrade. 

_Got another message from our 'friend' asking if John is dead yet. He's feverish, is there any way you can send another medic to us? SH_

He then texted Mycroft.

_Contact again, asking if John is dead yet. S_

Mycroft replied immediately. 

_Baiting. Leave it. John will be just fine. M_

Lestrade personally showed up with a medic not ten minutes later, walking in behind him. "What do you mean he asked if John's- what do you mean? Does that mean something?" the DI asked, scattered as it was, loathing that they all seemed to be in such danger for no real reason. 

Sherlock rubbed a hand over his face. "He's running a fever, almost 39. Completely out of it. I- I don't know." His hand carded through John's hair in a tender manner. The worry and the stress was evident on Sherlock's face. He just wanted to lie down and sleep with John.

Sherlock was gentle as he wrapped up around John, hand stroking his cheek. "Easy, John. Easy." He spoke gently, voice rumbling through his chest, vibrating against John. "Give him the jab, he doesn't understand and won't like it but he needs it."

John was still as Sherlock assured him, gritting his teeth and hissing as the needle slid into his backside. The medic shook a bottle of fever reducers, tipping two out and handing them to Sherlock, knowing already that John wasn't responsive to anyone else. "Leave the rest on the table, water is beside you both. Call if you need us." 

John dropped a hand to rub at where he'd been jabbed and then reached up to touch his forehead, and then Sherlock's, frowning. "Fever," he muttered overly quiet, actually pouting for a moment before closing his eyes. 

John's actions were hopefully going to straighten out when he’d had had some rest. Sherlock gently nudged him as he helped him sit up some. The pills were shown and popped in John's mouth, followed by a water bottle pressed to his lips. He nodded his head to the medic and Lestrade. "Mycroft said there are clothes for you here somewhere, Lestrade."

Greg nodded, "Alright, thanks. You two… Jesus, just go to sleep. He clobbered his head then, yeah? Shit." He turned and left without another word, intent on returning to Molly. The medic left, and John simply pulled at Sherlock. "They're...upset. I'm not… not… what am I not doing? Or… Sherlock," he nearly whined, his voice dropping with his confusion, pressing his face back to Sherlock's chest and holding on to him. "Sherlock." 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and pulled him close, dropping a gentle kiss to his head. "Easy, easy. Everyone is tired. Time to rest. Just rest."

John just responded to Sherlock's movements, tucking down into the bedding with him. He pulled at Sherlock as he found a comfortable place and closed his eyes, swiftly starting to doze off.

Sherlock was all too happy to follow John into sleep once more. Exhaustion overtook him and he closed his eyes, sleep settling in much faster than usual.

Hours ticked by without much activity, John sleeping quietly with Sherlock beside him. In the small hours he began to mumble under his breath, and several minutes later he snapped awake, his breathing ragged, scrambling backwards and nearly falling from his bed.

Sherlock sat up, reaching for John. A broad hand wrapped around his arm as Sherlock tried to understand what was happening. "John?" The name was thick and sleepy on Sherlock's tongue.

John wrenched back in the silence, fully falling from the bed and scrambling backwards in the darkness. He closed his eyes to stamp down on the effort to see as it was pitch black, and would only distract him.

Pain lit across his head in a visible golden explosion of sparks, nearly making him toss up on the floor then and there. His breathing was panicked and chaotic as he scrambled for a safe place.

Sherlock swore and turned on the light by the bed. He eased off the mattress to the floor, moving slow toward John. "John?" Sherlock didn't think he could hear and damn it that was a problem.

John's eyes opened as the light filtered through his eyelids. It took him several moments to focus his glassy eyes on Sherlock, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, hands horrifically shaking.

"Sherlock?" He breathed, trading in the room around them in confusion, "I… I can't hear you."

Sherlock moved to the bed, snagging his phone. He typed up something on it before returning to John and handing him the phone.

'Bomb, Baker Street, all over London too. Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson all here. You were closest to it. At safehouse of Mycroft's.'

John reached out and tried to take the phone, dropping it from his slick fingers. He made a clipped sound of discomfort, raking his fingers through his hair and dropping his head down, starting to shiver.

He reached for the phone again, keeping it on the floor and working hard to read the text, which swam in the screen.

Sherlock swore again and reached for John. He tilted John's head up to look at him. With gentle movements Sherlock picked John up off the floor and eased him back onto the bed.

John gasped in pain as Sherlock lifted him, swiftly turning a light shade of green, an icy wave washing over his face as stars erupted along his vision. "Sher-"

He snapped his jaw shut as he gagged, whimpering and swallowing hard to keep from sicking up.

Sherlock frowned and touched John's head. He grabbed the bin from nearby and out it next to the bed. John was worrying him and Sherlock held up a finger. Giving no heed to his state of mostly undress he padded to find a medic, wanting John looked over.

John closed his eyes and curled up on his side, miserable, just wanting Sherlock to come back. When a medic walked in, John took one look at him and rolled so that his back was to the medic, clearly dismissing him. "Sherlock," was all he whispered by way of a greeting or dismissal, his stomach clenched and threatening him. 

Sherlock was on the medic's heels, heading straight for John as he spoke. "Very ill looking, he'd beginning to concern me with how he's acting." His hand tenderly ran over John's shoulder. "Nearly sicked-up on me."

John grabbed hold of Sherlock's hand, breathing slow through parted lips, battling with his stomach. The medic drew out a penlight and moved around the bed, kneeling in front of John and speaking swiftly. "Doctor Watson, I need you to open your eyes for me." 

John had drawn Sherlock's hand over his shoulder and was gripping it tight just under his chin, not at all liking this man. He squeezed with his grip on Sherlock and shook his head, groaning at the resulting light show and nausea. "Leave me alone," he slurred, and would have rolled over again to face Sherlock were his head not about to split in two. 

Sherlock frowned as he pressed closer to John. He placed his other hand over John’s chest. A silent plea. Worry deepened lines on his face. “John…” He whispered as he watched him. All of this was wearing on his nerves. The only thing he wanted to do was lie down with John and go back to sleep.

John opened his eyes, flinching at the light but otherwise holding still as he kept a tight grip on Sherlock's hand. The medic looked him over, nodding and thanking John before standing up and looking at Sherlock. "Fever and concussion are likely what this is. He does not have any alarming symptoms that I can tell. Pupils are a bit sluggish but that's to be expected. Movement can make him sick with that head injury. I'd just let him sleep and see how he does."

Sherlock glared at the man. "You can't give him anything!? He's _miserable_." His jaw worked and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "My apologies, thank you for checking on him." A foot hooked the rest of the blankets and Sherlock dragged them up the bed to cover them both up to their chins. His arm wrapped around John both in comfort and possession.

"If he's still like this in half an hour, come get us. I'd rather not dose him if he's going to go to sleep anyhow." 

John shifted and he pressed as close to Sherlock as he could without moving his head, closing his eyes and trying to move deeper under the blankets. 

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgment to the man as he pulled the covers over both their heads. He wrapped John up as much as he could, near gluing them together.John managed to lay there for ten minutes awake, before sleep got the better of him and he was back off, quiet and calm in Sherlock's arms. The night passed in relative quiet and when the sun rose and the house began to pick up in activity, John still slept. 

Sherlock's phone remained quiet and no one came to bother them. Mycroft had been updated in the night that there were difficulties with John, and ensured that no one let themselves anywhere near their room save for the four of their friends. 

Sherlock was fast asleep with his head tucked into John's neck as the sun rose. The scent and the feel of him in his arms was perfect. He'd slept through the night without incident, not even a whisper of a bad dream. 

Greg ended up breaking the silence just shy of the lunch hour, too concerned with them to leave off any longer. He knocked lightly on the door, calling Sherlock's name quietly. "Sherlock? It's a bit late, are you lot alright?"

Sherlock answered by slinging a pillow against the door. He muttered against John. "Why is Lestrade in our flat?" 

_Not flat. Safe house. Bomb._ His eyes flew open. _Past noon. John._ John. _Is he dead yet?-xx_ Sherlock let out a sound of distress as his hand went to John's neck, feeling for a pulse in a near panicked gesture.

"Sherlock?" Greg called out a second time, having heard the thump but nothing else. His heart squeezed and he cracked the door, spilling light into the room. "Sherlock? Are you alright?" 

Sherlock was feeling for John's pulse and shaking so badly he couldn't find it. He was seized by terror and unable to rationalize anything in those moments as he choked out. "I can't- I-" There was a sound of distress from Sherlock.

Greg swore and rushed to John's side, finding him unresponsive to Sherlock's hands. He pushed Sherlock's fingers away from John's throat, easily finding his pulse. "John?" He called out loudly, putting his fingers under John's nose to feel for his breathing. 

"He's breathing, he's-" Greg stopped talking as John drew in a deep breath and half opened his eyes, blinking twice before closing them again, otherwise unmoving. "Okay, I'm getting the doc, just… just calm down, Sherlock, let me see what they say." 

Sherlock tucked his head against John’s. “Come back. Come back here to me, god damn it.” He shook against John, trying to calm back down. 

Greg was back in less than five minutes, doctor in tow, clicking on the room lights without warning. 

Which was enough to somewhat rouse John. He flinched and mumbled something incoherent under his breath before going still once again. He did not react much to the doctor handling him or looking him over. "Dr. Watson, need you to open your eyes and look at me," the doctor called out loudly, vigorously rubbing John's shoulder. John grumbled and tried to slink back. It took several attempts to get him to comply at all. 

He looked up with heavy-lidded eyes and then closed them again, whimpering slightly from the light. The doctor nodded and looked over to Sherlock. "Fever, head injury, and perhaps a bit of fatigue. I'll give him something to help with the fever and pain, and then let's see if we can't get him more awake over the next hour?" 

Sherlock nodded to the doctor and sat up on the bed beside John, back to the door, hip to hip with him. “John.” He cupped John’s cheek before running his fingertips along John’s jaw. “Please.”

John’s condition was wrecking him. He had no idea how John had managed all that time beside his bed in hospital.

Greg watched the doctor draw up medication and then inject it into John, who failed to react at all to the uncomfortable stimuli. He swore under his breath and decided that he was going to get Molly, who handled Sherlock the best of all of them outside of John. 

"If you can't get him to react to you, call for me. I'll be back in an hour, it would be best to try and get him up, though don't go to extremes." With that, he walked out of the room, quietly closing the door behind him and leaving Sherlock and John on their own. 

"John Hamish Watson, if you do not get up and pay attention to me I am going to have the biggest strop you have ever seen. Baker Street's gun-shot-in-boredom will have nothing on this!" Sherlock rubbed John's chest, "John! Please. _Please_."

John's brows knit as Sherlock rubbed at his chest and he shifted slightly, growing irritable with people trying to wake him when sleep weighed so heavy and the darkness was like thick molasses to drag himself out of. Sleep left him blank and dark, where waking _hurt_. "What?" he breathed, picking up his hand as though about to reach for Sherlock, only to give up and let it fall back to the bed, feeling far too heavy for movement. Everything he did felt as though he were trudging through knee-high mud. 

"You are scaring me. That's what, damn it. I was shaking so badly I couldn't find your pulse!" Sherlock's tone was off, desperate. "You nearly got blown to bits, Molly has been _shot_. London's been attacked by a mad man. But you... I need you. You keep me right."

John did not respond, already having fallen back down hard into sleep. His breathing slowed and his entire body was lax again, the effort it had taken to come up long enough to speak having worn him out. 

Greg was back with Molly, whose ear was stitched and bandaged and had been otherwise showered and changed, knocking lightly before simply letting them in. He had hold of her smaller hand, ready to deal with Sherlock. "Hey, we're here." 

Sherlock made a noise of frustration and snarled at John. "Wake UP!" 

Molly swore softly and moved to the side of the bed Sherlock was on and tugged on his hand. "Hey, no... Sherlock. Don't. Come on. Easy does it. John's going to be fine. He is. Okay?"

Molly found her arms full of Sherlock who curled his hands into her shirt. "You got shot because of me and John got blown up because of me. Mary and Elizabeth are dead because of me."

"Oh, Sherlock... no." Molly looked to Greg wide-eyed.

Greg shrugged and made a gesture that implied that this was exactly why he'd gotten Molly to come along with him. Sherlock had been insisting it was his fault since before Mary had died, and he had no idea how to reach him. Perhaps Molly would have a better chance. 

John had flinched when Sherlock yelled, moving his hand slowly to press against his head, breathing faster than before. He shifted his legs slightly under the blankets and then went mostly still, save for the way his fingers rhythmically rubbed just above his temple. 

"Sherlock, this, none of this is your fault. It isn't. We're all okay. Alright. All of us here are okay. John's just got to have a bit of rest and then he'll be back to keeping you in line." Molly's voice was gentle. She gave Sherlock a small kiss to the top of his head. "Come on then. You just be here for John and let him know that you have him."

Sherlock let out a small sound of disgruntlement but spoke against Molly. "Make him wake up."

She frowned and carded a hand through his curls.

Greg shook his head and shoved his hands in his pockets, staring down at John. "What does Mycroft think this is about, then? Do we know who's at it, who's done this?" Perhaps if they spoke normally, John would pull up out of it. For now, he might be able to distract Sherlock from his problems. "Sherlock?"

"New employer, gave Sebastian Moran free rein. You do know Moriarty had a twin? His bloody name is _Richard_." Sherlock pulled away from Molly and rubbed his hand over his face. "He's been given Richard, asked me if I'd hand Mycroft over in chains... Not sure I want to know if he meant metaphorically or literally."

"Moriarty did not have a damned _twin brother_ , you're having me on. Richard Moriarty? No." Greg shook his head, his usual myrth and easy going nature effectively suppressed by the severity of the situation. "Why the hell would Sebastian Moran want- nevermind, I don't even want to know. Nevermind. So do we know the new employer or is that yet to be revealed?"

Molly listened, petting Sherlock as he got worked up over the case. "No clue, at least, I have no clue, if I know my brother, he's already worked most of it out."

John shifted again, increasingly agitated with the light and noise in the room. With a clipped sound of pain he dragged his hand away from his temple and up to his eyes, covering them before he lost the strength in his arm. "Quiet," he whimpered, turning his face away from them, wanting nothing more than to sleep.

Sherlock looked to John and made a sound of annoyance. "I will not be quiet. There is a bomber loose in London and he wants my brother _in chains_. He attacked my _family_ and I will not stand for it!"

Molly stroked Sherlock's hair, trying to soothe him back down.

"Easy," Greg warned off as John's face collapsed in an expression of pain, hand dropping to cover his ear closest to Sherlock.

John drew in a deep breath, which tripped his gag reflex, making his chest heave as he forced himself to his side, shielding his face with his elbow as he held his ear so tight his knuckles blanched.

Sherlock's jaw twitched and he clammed up, refusing to speak anymore. He thrummed with nervous energy, unequipped to deal with the emotions he was feeling.

Greg looked down at John and then to Sherlock. "Sherlock, take a walk. Go with Molly and have a cuppa, walk it off," he whispered, "or walk with me and let her sit with John. Either way, take a walk."

John began to rock himself very slightly in an effort to soothe the pain he was in, eyes pinched tight shut.

Sherlock slid off the bed and stalked out of the room.

Molly sighed as she looked at Greg. Her words were quiet. "Which one do you want?"

"Let me, he looks like he might thump someone and John could use someone kind," he clipped, agitated to hell with Sherlock.

John managed to make it to the edge of the bed, grabbing the bin before he began forcefully sicking up, crying out sharply as pain erupted across his head.

Molly moved to the lav immediately and wet a couple of cloths before moving back to John and rubbing his back.

Greg swiftly followed Sherlock out into the hall, catching up. He reached out and touched his arm when they were beyond the hallway John was in. "You are going to have to calm down."

Sherlock stared at Greg before yanking his arm away. "You aren't my keeper." He hissed at Greg. "I'm going back to London to help my brother."

Greg stopped short, a shadow passing over his face. "Of course you are. Brilliant. Have a smashing time of it, Sherlock, I'm sure it will be grand." His hands flexed and relaxed at his side as he stared at Sherlock.

"I'll go tell him, since he can hear again, at least. You have a wonderful time on your case."

Sherlock slammed Greg back against the wall, hands on his shoulders. "You don't get to stand in judgement of me." Rage simmered just below the surface. Sherlock was snapping in a protracted manner. The unnamed mad man behind the bombings was getting exactly what he wanted and Sherlock was powerless to stop it.

"Like hell I don't," Greg hissed back, keeping his hands to his sides, starting Sherlock down. "I absolutely get to stand here and judge you, and I bloody well am."

Sherlock’s voice was dangerous and low as he spoke again. "Explain to me _very carefully_ what gives you the right to judge me? Is it because I killed someone to protect Mycroft, John, and Mary? Is it because even though I pulled that trigger, I failed to protect any of them? Or perhaps it's because you've gotten dragged into my messes, twice? Tell me, Detective Inspector... what is my crime _this_ time other than trying to ensure the protection of everyone I hold dear?"

Greg cracked an incredulous smile and shook his head. "You're an idiot, you know that? A proper idiot. I love you, god help me, but you're so thick it hurts sometimes. Jesus." He still kept his hands to his sides, fully prepared for Sherlock to strike, "You are walking about as though this entire sodding thing is your doing, as though you are the only one affected, and worse, you keep _leaving him_." 

Greg had watched John lose it for _months_ beside Sherlock, he was beyond done watching Sherlock walk away from him. "So what? Going to go get yourself killed then? Will that fix it?"

Sherlock’s jaw twitched, “He is in no condition to go with me. I cannot sit here and do _nothing_. This is intolerable. All of it is-” He shook his head. “It _is_ my fault.”

Greg shrugged. "Then leave. Go." He kept his eyes locked to Sherlock's. He wasn't going to give his blessing, and if Sherlock was looking for it he wouldn't find it. "John's world was collapsing around him and you know where he was, when he should have been sorting his family? With _you_. So go. Call Mycroft, get on your helicopter, and fly away again. Go." 

Sherlock swung then, intent on putting Greg to the ground for that comment. He was trying his damnedest to explain his fucking thought process, to reason things out and all Greg could do was judge him instead of talking it out with him. "Fuck you, Lestrade."

Greg never managed to forget how hard Sherlock could hit, but it still took him by surprise as he lurched to the side, face exploding with pain, suddenly on the ground. He clapped a hand over his bleeding nose and looked up at Sherlock before letting his head hang for a moment, bleeding onto the floor in front of him. He closed his eyes, swallowing hard, nodding to himself. "Right," he breathed, slowly pushing himself to his feet. 

"Whatever id is that you think you gonna do, you're dot. Thad, oud there, id bigger than you. Id's also nod your fault. So, do whad ever you need to, Sherlock, but for fuck's sake don't ged yourself killed." 

Sherlock was full on ranting at Greg then as he paced, still in his bloody boxers in front of himn. "I needed someone to talk to, someone to _listen_ to me... and all you lot can _ever_ do is judge _every fucking move I make_!" His breathing was ragged as he gesticulated. "Don't you _dare_ throw John in my face like that ever again." He was shaking as he stood there, lost and feeling like his world was closing in around him. Did he have no one left on his side?

"Then bloody well _talk_ ," Greg responded slowly, stepping to the side and spitting a mouthful into the bin, moving back to Sherlock with his nose pinched. He watched Sherlock pacing like a caged panther, shaking his head. "This isn't your damned fault, Sherlock, and no one but you is blaming you for it. Getting on a plane and going to London will do nothing, and Mycroft is likely to toss you back here anyhow. I'm not throwing John in your face, Sherlock, I'm telling you what's on and you are rejecting it because it's inconvenient. You've come to your conclusion, and now you're using whatever data you can find to support it." 

Sherlock swore at him, in a very colorful manner, in French for a full two minutes. "You are the most ridiculous man I have ever met!"

Greg had his back rested against the wall, trying to stop bleeding onto his damned chest. Christ he hated nosebleeds. "The feeling is mutual," he muttered as he shifted his hand, scowling at his bloodied palm as he held his nose with the other. 

"I think you're angry with John, and you don't know how to deal with it." 

Sherlock looked at him and blinked. "Why would I be angry with _John_? That is easily the stupidest thing to come out of your mouth. I do not understand how you could possibly think I am angry with John. I am angry someone tried to kill us all."

Greg shook his head. "The whole of London is angry someone tried to kill us all. There are a lot of dead people out there, a lot of families grieving. I pulled Molly out of the rubble of her flat and had her _in my arms_ when she caught that grazing round. I'm angry as well. But this isn't _your failure_ , you crazed man, and you know it, I know you know it, deep in that brilliant head of yours." 

He pointed to John's room down the other hallway, "But he tangled us in this, unwittingly but still, had he just… what? What was it you wanted him to do? Stop living? If he'd just stopped living, he would never have met her, and you would never have had to deal with any of this, and you lot would be handling cases for the Yard and messing about as you always had. So yeah, I think you're angry with him and you don't know how to deal with it."

Sherlock laughed then. "That never occurred to me, Lestrade. Not one whit of it. So, good on you for jumping to the wrong conclusion, again."

"Fuck you, Sherlock," Greg hissed, dropping his hand away again, not giving a damn that he was bleeding on himself. "Fuck you. I'm trying to help you, we are _all_ trying to help you. I know you've made sacrifices, I do, but none of us asked them of you, and we all would have helped, and I'm trying to sort out where your head is, futile as that is likely to be!" he shoved Sherlock hard back against the wall, his hand splayed across the center of Sherlock's chest, breathing hard and honestly angry now. 

Sherlock's jaw worked as he clenched his fist in an effort not to strike Greg again. "I just want him well. I don't function normally without him anymore." The look on Sherlock's face made it obvious how much he loathed being that dependent on someone else. "And I can't make him better. Not physically, not emotionally. I can't 'fix' it. It all just has to heal... if it even will."

Greg glared at him, "Then _why_ ," he pressed, scooting in closer to Sherlock, "are you making it fucking _harder_ for him to?" He was openly furious, set off by the look of disgust Sherlock gave at confessing needing John. 

"I'm not trying to!" Sherlock exploded at him. "Can I do nothing that satisfies any of you? I AM _TRYING_ AND NONE OF YOU TAKE THAT INTO CONSIDERATION!"

Greg stepped back slightly then, shaking his head. "All I see is you running."

"You told me to take a walk! And when I attempted to talk and work things through in my mind you attacked me!" Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know what any of you want from me. I'm either a machine and you all hate me for it, or I allow myself to feel and you all hate me for it"

Greg tossed his hands in the air, "I told you to take a walk because you were _hurting him_! And I don't mean running here in this goddamn hallway, you just told me you are leaving! I've told you twice in this conversation that I sodding love you, you impossible man. I don't think you're a machine, and I'd rather see you feel what you feel than run off looking for someone to throttle, and excuse me, I'm the one bleeding all over myself right now, I damn well did _not attack you_." 

He raked his hands through his hair, leaving the strands up at odd angles, forgetting that his hands were bloody, "I'm exhausted and I thought she was dead for a good while yesterday, and you are just going to have to cut me a fucking break here Sherlock I'm not on my normal form, but this isn't your goddamn fault and I don't fucking _hate you_." 

"Oh, _oh_. I didn't see that? How did I not see that?" Sherlock swallowed and shook his head, "I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do for him. They told me to wake him up and I can't and I hurt him and you did attack me over John. I don't know what anyone wants from me or what to do. I am- lost."

Greg shook his head, seconds from walking away from him. "Welcome to life as the rest of us live it. No one knows what to do, we just do the best we can. If you honestly think flying away from here and leaving John behind is what you should do, then do it, Sherlock. I didn't fucking attack you over him, I told you the truth. If you feel attacked, maybe you should reflect on _why_ that is. No one ever knows what to do, we just do the best we can. I'm going to go clean myself up. Christ." 

He turned around, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, leaving a pathetic smattering trail behind him and not giving a fuck as he slipped off to wash up. 

Sherlock moved back to the room John was in and pointed to the door. "Get out. Thank you for tending to him. See to your detective. I bloodied his nose." His voice was quiet.

Molly gasped softly, "Sherlock Holmes. God. You-" She made a small noise of frustration and punched his arm on the way out, shutting the door quietly behind her despite her want to slam it.

He crawled into bed once she was gone, wrapping John in his arms in tender, gentle movements.

John whimpered at being moved, even just slightly, fisting his hands in his hair and pulling hard. His fever was down, but his head was splitting and covering him in terrible, cloying nausea. He pinched his eyes shut tight, wanting nothing more than sleep. "I'm so- so tired," he cried out, pushed down to his basest mind, overly taxed. 

Sherlock chewed on his lip. "I'm sorry. Just rest. Just rest, John."

\---

Greg came back two hours later with Molly, knocking lightly on the door. John had alternated between deep sleeping and shifting in pain, whimpering at his head. He was clutched to Sherlock's wrist when the knock came, shaking his head and trying to hide away. 

Sherlock kept his voice low, "Come in, quiet." He tried to soothe John back down. "It's okay, it's okay. Shh." John's state had Sherlock tense, worry etched into his face.

Greg walked in with Molly right behind him, holding her hand. The room was dark and John's breathing audible, fast and pained.

"No better?"

Sherlock shook his head looking pained. "No," he whispered.

Greg put a hand on Molly's shoulder and eased her into the room, whispering, "Going to let them know, can you stay?"

Molly nodded to him and squeezed his other hand before moving to Sherlock's side. She was tender as she stroked through Sherlock's curls. He leaned into the touch, worried look an almost permanent fixture despite her soothing.

Greg was back with a doctor in the next ten minutes, warning him off turning on the overhead. The physician walked quietly to John's side, crouching down and clicking on the table light. John shouted at him, recoiling and pressing his hands over his eyes, his stomach rolling hard. "Sher-" he clipped off, struggling to breathe around the nausea. 

"I'm going to give you something for pain, Dr. Watson. If you'll give me your arm," he extended his hand and gently took John's wrist, intent on straightening out his arm to give him an injection. John shouted again, pressing further back against Sherlock, wrenching his wrist out of the physician's hand and choking as his stomach heaved. 

Sherlock let out a low sound of pain and tucked his head against John's speaking low. "John, he's here to help. Do you want me to give you the shot instead of the doctor?"

John pulled at Sherlock's hand, only understanding that he was in brilliant agony and that someone other than Sherlock was trying to handle him. He nodded, whimpering at the eruption of sparks across his vision, sweating from the pain in his head. 

The physician spoke quietly. "This is likely a cluster headache brought on from the concussion. Morphine should help bring the symptoms down quickly, I can bring in a bit of oxygen too, see if that helps to ease it."

Sherlock sat up as easy as he could. He took the morphine from the doctor. "Thank you, yes." 

Molly sucked in a soft breath as she watched just how skilled Sherlock was with the needle and drug. She shook her head as he prepped John's arm and was soon swabbing him with alcohol. The needle was slipped in John's arm and the drug slowly pushed into John's vein.

John made a soft sound of relief as the medication began to flow in his veins, docile and compliant under Sherlock. The deep lines of tension around his face eased and he began to breathe a bit deeper. 

Greg kept to the corner, frowning. He'd seen Sherlock shoot up before, knew he was skilled at it, didn't particularly like the memory of it. But he was here, and he was helping John, and that was something. The physician watched John's reaction, deciding oxygen was not particularly necessary at this point. "If he gets worse, let me know." 

Sherlock nodded and Molly took the used needle and phial from his hands. She disposed of them before moving to Greg's side, watching the men as Sherlock tucked back up around John, his lips resting against John's temple.

Greg slid his arm around her back and rest his head against the top of hers. His face ached and he was exhausted, but this seemed to be where they should be. 

John, now free from the agony that ripped through his head, turned to face Sherlock then. He flung his arms around Sherlock and held tight, and Greg shook his head and whispered to Molly, "We should go." 

Molly hummed her agreement. "Let's go ice that nose again. I hit him earlier for you." She gently tugged on him taking him toward the door.

Sherlock was oblivious to them as he touched John's cheek. He didn't speak as he trailed his fingertips along John's jaw, seeking to comfort him.

John hummed and sank his fingers in Sherlock's hair, pulling him down and brushing their lips together. He slotted himself closer, whimpering quietly into Sherlock's mouth as pain reminded him that it was blanketed, not gone, and he shivered hard, trying to pull Sherlock closer to him. 

Sherlock wrapped John close as he kissed him to take his mind away from the pain again. His hands were tender on John's back as he rubbed up and down his back.

Sherlock's mobile vibrated with a call from Mycroft, while John clung tight to him, hooking a leg over his hip, exhaling a shaking breath and pulling away enough to tuck his head under Sherlock's chin.

Sherlock kept his grip on John with one hand while he answered his phone with the other. He kept his voice low. "Hello, Mycroft."

A breathless Mycroft responded, his voice rough and stuttered. "I want you and John out of the country. Tonight. There are standing orders, take what you need and go. I don't care if you bring the others just get out of England." 

"Mycroft? Where are you? What's going on?" Sherlock went tense, listening. "I will come get you. My? Where are you?"

John only felt Sherlock tense and understood he was distressed, hugging him closer and breathing slowly, savoring the feel of new comfort. 

Mycroft's reply came after a hail of gunfire and shouting in furious German, "Go, 'Lock! Out of the country, I-" he swore and there was a loud rustling from the line, the obvious sound of running and panicked breathing, "they have MI5, I'm-" another few shots cracked off before the line dropped. 

"John. We have to go. We have to go _now_. And at some point we have to find my brother." Sherlock took a moment to close his eyes, mapping the directions they could take and get out of the country the fastest. France was closest, they had family holdings there, long dormant family holdings that had been kept off record for reasons. If Mycroft got out... he'd go there.

"Vatican Cameos, John." Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he dialed Greg's phone.

John whimpered as Sherlock moved him, grabbing his head and trying to sit up as the room spun violently. He shook his head and grabbed hold of a pillow, managing to keep himself upright though doing nothing more. The blankets pooled around his nude hips and he made no attempt to get up. 

Greg answered his phone on the second ring. "Sherlock."

"Move, now. Mrs. Hudson and Molly. Get them dressed and ready to walk out the door. I want- Deal with Mrs. Hudson, get Molly to pack anything she needs for her care and painkillers for John. I have a ship's captain to contact. Mycroft is MIA, they've overrun MI5. I'll hit Mycroft's office here. I'm quite sure he's likely got papers for all of us. We're going to France. Got it?" Sherlock's tone was dead calm.

Greg swore on the other end of the line and then he spoke swiftly, "Yeah, I've got this lot. Ten minutes and we will meet you at the main entrance." He rang off and rushed about to do as Sherlock asked. 

John had a hand pressed to his temple, trying to open his eyes. "Sherlock? I… I don't want to move."

"Not going to have to. I'll carry you and put you in the car. Lie down, John. Just, lie down. I'm going to dress you, going to get those papers that idiot has somewhere here for us and then I am going to carry you to the car and get you the hell out of this country. Do you hear me, John?" Sherlock kissed his forehead and slid from the bed, dressing with haste in clothes that had been delivered at some point in a bag. 

John eased down to his side, head pulsing for a moment before settling again. He curled his fingers up to his lips and closed his eyes, not at all liking that he was in bed without Sherlock, that Sherlock was distressed and he couldn't quite peg why. So he lay quietly, doing as he was asked, simply waiting. 

Sherlock moved to John's side. "This is going to hurt." He was as gentle as was possible, dressing John from the feet up. There wasn't much movement until John's shirt. "I am so, so sorry." Sherlock made the work of getting John's shirt on as gentle and swift as possibly, rubbing his back when he was finished. "So sorry."

John reached out and took Sherlock's wrist, looking up at him more clearly than he had before. "I want to help. I'm sorry I can't right now." He let go of him, dizzy but understanding that Sherlock needed to go. He tucked his fingers back to his lips and closed his eyes, riding out the wave of nausea, deeply worried about Sherlock. "I… I love you, I'm sorry."

Sherlock touched his head. "John, it's my turn to take care of you. You stood by my side when anyone else would have run. I'll be back in a moment." He brushed a kiss to John's head and turned, moving out to find Mycroft's office. The smug smile on his face said it was exactly where he thought it would be. The door was unlocked and he slipped in. On the middle of the table was a packet with Sherlock's name on it.

Of course, Mycroft had packed them his version of a bug out bag. A quick rifle through it revealed currency and papers for all of them. Sherlock moved at a fast clip, throwing the packet in the bag that held more clothing when he got back to the room. "Ready?" The bag was zipped and strapped to his back.

John sat up and did his best to stand, swaying on his feet, one hand out grabbing the wall. "I… I n-need a minute," he breathed, nearly ready to sick up, shivering as his brain utterly rejected his attempt at standing. He didn't understand what was going on, but Sherlock seemed to know and that was enough for John at that moment. 

Sherlock moved to his side. "Let me carry you, John. Mycroft is missing, MI5 has been overrun. Let me carry you, please. I love you." He wrapped his arms around John and kissed his temple.

John sagged against him, his legs shaking with exertion. "K," he whispered, allowing Sherlock to shoulder his weight. "M-Molly and Greg are they… are they okay?"

"Molly had her ear shot after her flat fell on her and I was an arse and busted Greg's nose out of guilt about how I was treating you." Sherlock picked John up completely and carried him bodily out toward the front. "Everyone is okay with the exception of Mycroft and I- we'll figure that out."

John gasped in discomfort as he was lifted, soon going quiet and simply allowing Sherlock to shoulder his weight. "Molly was shot? What are- is...I-" he slipped a shade of green and went quiet, tucking his face against Sherlock's neck. 

Greg had a hand on Mrs. Hudson who was wringing her hands, standing in front of their bags, dressed and pale with worry. "Sherlock," she cried out, moving right for him, putting a hand on John's head and fussing about, "What's going on? Why are we leaving? I thought we were safe here?"

"Mycroft is missing, MI5 overrun. We're going to France, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock said in as gentle a tone as he could muster. "Let's get in the car. Who is driving?"

Two of Mycroft's favorite guards, Tanners and Langdon, were already hovering at the door. "No car, going by air, straight flight. Jet is ready and waiting if you will come with us." They'd been intentionally left behind, a message from Mycroft to Sherlock that Sherlock's safety continued to be his highest priority. 

John was bordering blacking out. His grip was slipping on Sherlock, sweating, breathing faster than normal. "Sherlock," he breathed, miserable, the minor excitement already having an adverse effect on him. Greg took Sherlock's things, leaving his hands empty save for his armful of John Watson. 

Sherlock blinked. "Christ. Let's go then. I didn't think you lot were still here. I have you John, I have you. I'm sorry." He looked up to Tanners and recalled the hand to hand training Tanners had given him before he left. "I trust you. Get our arses out of here. Then we're going to find my brother." 

Molly helped Mrs. Hudson as they got ready to move. "Got the pack you wanted Sherlock."

"Good. When we get airborne, we're giving him something." He kissed John's temple and prepared to haul him to the waiting transport.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, Bel and VS are amazing and brilliant and I love them. -Symphony
> 
> Also, do expect some OOCness given everything they've all been through.

Mycroft's jet was already on the tarmac, engines running, pilot in place. They used cars to swiftly move from the main entrance of the safehouse to the runway, John grew less and less responsive in Sherlock's arms, nearly completely unconscious by the time they loaded in behind the others. Each had their own leather seat in the main cabin, but there was a bed at the back for John. Langdon went up with the pilot while Tanners locked them up for flight. 

Sherlock strapped John in for the flight, raiding the emergency medical kit on board for a bag of saline. "Do we have O2 on board? Molly! When we're airborne I need you!"

"I'll be there Sherlock." Molly answered as she made sure Mrs. Hudson was alright.

The IV was started and Sherlock taped off everything, using far more than was probably necessary. Having threaded it first try, Sherlock was taking no chances. He looked around for a place to hang it, finally spying a small hook. "Hang in there John. I'll get you fixed as soon as we're up." Sherlock strapped himself into the seat closest to John.

The takeoff was smooth, no trouble in the mostly calm skies. Greg kept hold of Mrs. Hudson's small hand, watching Molly, his view of John blocked. He knew Tanners well, had worked with him many times. Langdon as well, though he'd not run missions with him. He trusted Tanners. He was the sort of bloke he'd likely have a pint with. He looked over at him; Tanners was on alert but less so now they were in the sky, there was precious little he could do at the moment to keep them safe. 

John lost it, hardly keeping it together enough to think to roll to his side, trembling hand reaching for the sick bag at the wall before he used the last of his strength to toss up into it, crying out as his blood pressure surged and making him black out completely in the next moment.

Sherlock swore as John passed out, catching the sick bag before it went everywhere. Sherlock drew up another dose of morphine and pushed it, taking care to time it. "Pack any anti-emetics so he doesn't sick up on us again?"

Molly drew up the drug she'd brought and handed it to Sherlock. "Flush the line well, then push. It will help him sleep too. I'll take his blood pressure, you get him some relief."

Sherlock followed her instructions as Molly set about taking John's blood pressure. "Elevated, but not dangerous. We'll keep an eye on it."

He kissed John's forehead. "I have you, John. I have you. You're safe and I will get you feeling better. We're going somewhere no one knows about. Well, almost no one." _Please, Mycroft, please be safe._

Molly patted Sherlock's hand. "I'm going to sit down. Ear is throbbing." 

He reached out and grabbed her hand. "You always, always help me. You're beautiful, Molly. Inside and out. Thank you."

Molly stared at him for a moment. "He's going to be alright, Sherlock. He is." She touched his cheek before moving to her chair once more.

John's hand moved for Sherlock once before he lost consciousness, going lax against the thin bedding as the plane leveled out and reached altitude. The flight would not be long. 

Sherlock's mobile rang, the number blocked, the call dropping before Sherlock had a chance to answer it. A message blipped through from Mycroft, cut off and incomplete. 

_I've been_

Again the line rang with the number hidden from him. 

Sherlock swore as he answered the phone, curling his hand around John's. "Mycroft?" His voice was hopeful, but guarded.

"Sherlock?" An older child's voice came over the line, frightened, breathless, and very, very quiet, hushed and gripping over the mike, "is… is this Sherlock?"

He froze. "This is Sherlock, who is this?" His voice softened as he snapped at Greg and put the phone on speaker.

Greg got up, moving over to Sherlock swiftly as the speaker sounded with ragged, panicked breathing. "I… I'm Elliot Spinner… you give me tenners to follow your brother sometimes." There was noise in the background and the child went silent, clapping a hand over his mouth to keep his terrified breathing calm. Greg swore under his breath, dropping his head in his hand for a moment, loathing sitting there and doing nothing. He knew that little kid. His family frequented the shelters, but never pegged down in one spot. 

When the background quieted the little chap started talking again, and it was clear from his tone he was doing all he could to keep his voice steady and not cry. "I f-found him, but he's- he said not to let anyone see him but- I don't know what to do. I think he's hurt, but I can't get him to hospital and I...I r-remembered your number and-" he gave a small sound of distress and went quiet. 

"Elliot, you beautiful boy. Okay, okay. I'm going to get you help. Can you tell me where you are?" Sherlock looked up to Greg and mouthed 'Anderson?' before speaking gently to Elliot. "Stay calm and tell me everything you can."

Greg nodded, already with his mobile out, texting Anderson. 

"U-Under Lambeth bridge on the south bank. There are a l-lot of people here with guns, I don't know what-" the tatter of gunfire erupted again and Elliot whimpered, going quiet, the sounds of rustling and dragging the only thing save for the distant peppering of bullets to come over the line. Greg was texting as the child spoke. 

"I saw him fall down and there were men running after him so I… I dragged a bit of cardboard over him and then I dragged him under here with me when they left. He w-was alone but I think they were chasing him! I-" again gunfire cut him off and the mic scratched and dragged as though over cloth. Suddenly Elliot was speaking but not to Sherlock. "No, no! You have to just lie down, just stay down I'm getting help! Please!" 

"Elliot! Give him the phone." Sherlock's face showed the barely controlled panic he kept out of his voice. "Elliot?" His breathing was kept even and slow. "Likely shot," he murmured to Greg. "Christ." Sherlock closed his eyes as he waited for Elliot or Mycroft to come back to the line.

There was a swift rustling and then Mycroft could be heard, his voice rough and slurred, obviously unaware he had a mobile pressed to his ear, "Need to get up, child, give me space." 

"Mycroft Holmes, you lie down and stay hidden. We are locating help for you. Tell me what you can." There was a small pause from Sherlock. "My? How bad?"

Greg waved his hand and mouthed that Anderson was on his way. 

Mycroft went very still and then his voice came over the line, attempting to mask how he'd sounded before. "Bit roughed up, I will be fine. Tell me you're flying." 

"In the air, breaking all sorts of pesky stupid laws about being on a mobile while up here. Help is on the way. Anderson. Don't scoff, he's all I've got right now. Mycroft... have you been shot? Tell me the truth, I can attempt better help for you." Sherlock's voice was gentler than it had ever been before with Mycroft.

Elliot shrieked and the line rustled as Mycroft grabbed the child, pulling him closer and trying to deepen their cover. "I don't know," he said honestly, the strength swiftly fading from his voice. "Your lockpicking tutelage has come in handy, I stand supremely corrected. I was in custody for a time. Moran is on the ground and quite unhinged." That was about all he was going to say on the matter, still sporting a cuff on one wrist, the other dangling free. 

Sherlock covered his mouth with his hand as he looked to Greg. He composed himself and spoke again. "Mycroft, don't you dare compliment me. You hang on. Christ, hang on for me. Anderson is coming. What does that crazy bastard want?"

Gunfire erupted closer to them this time and Mycroft swore as he worked to keep the child he'd been unwittingly paired with calm. "Moran is a s-small player now, I believe. Recruited to throw...us off the… Sherlock," he switched to French, his voice quiet and rough, "you are going to our e-estate there. You will be safe. I will come when I can. Th-This is not as connected as it seems, do not allow emotional manipulation to blind you to fact." 

Greg held up his hands, ten minutes ETA. 

"Ten minutes, Mycroft. Ten minutes. You- you come home. You come home to all of us, do you hear me?" Sherlock's voice cracked, unable to keep himself all the way together for the conversation. "There's a boat in Dover. Ask for Captain Sparrow."

Molly arched a brow at that, the reference obviously lost on Sherlock.

"He'll get you across if you don't have another way... if you can get word to us once you're across. We'll come get you. You still remember the numbers there? Yeah? We only had them drilled into our heads by you..."

Mycroft's voice came over the line again, calm and steady if not rougher than was ever normal for him. "I know my way home, Brother. I will see you there." 

The line clicked off, leaving the interior of the aircraft nearly silent. Greg shook his head, "He's going to be fine, Sherlock, he's going to be fine. Anderson has Donovan and they are going to get Mycroft and then they are going to get the hell out of there."

"Make sure they know Sparrow will take them all. Elliot too, if he doesn't run on them. I don't-" Sherlock looked as though he'd been struck. He sat down with his back to John's bed, blinking. 

Mrs. Hudson got up then, while Greg got on the phone with Anderson, moving to sit right down next to Sherlock. "Take a breath, dear," she said quietly, taking his hand and holding it without giving him the option to draw away. "Mycroft is a very clever man, and a strong one as well. He is going to be alright. He will. Soon enough we will all be in France while the government sorts this mess." 

Greg rang off with Anderson, looking down to Sherlock. "Said the whole area is chaos, but they have the military involved, since Mycroft is a priority, they've got some substantial backup." 

Sherlock was grateful for the comfort and it showed in how he wrapped his much larger hand around Mrs. Hudson's and looked up to Greg. "Thank you." He leaned his head back, resting it against John's arm. "What the hell is going on?"

Greg shook his head, "Hell if I know, though something far bigger than Moran being miffed about his playthings taken. Anderson will get Mycroft, Sherlock. He will. That kid's going to go to the shelter and meet up with his family, hopefully. Anderson said that, aside from Molly and your homes, the residential areas of London have been left alone. It's all at MI5 now, the civilian side seems mostly untouched since Baker Street went up." 

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief at that. "Good. I- that's still bad, but- good about residential areas." He nodded his head somewhat. "Okay, France, regroup, figure out who the hell is bombing London and why."

The flight passed in silence for the next half hour, when Greg's line rang with Anderson's number. He picked it up on speaker. "Philip?" 

The background was very loud, the rumble of a heavy armed vehicle obvious and it was enough to stir John out of his sleep. Anderson's voice came over the line, loud and steady, if not a bit amped up from adrenaline. "We have Mycroft and the kid. Mycroft is being looked at now, out cold, but seems steady. Beat to high Sunday but-" there was a loud voice in the background, unfamiliar and too mixed with the other sounds to properly hear. "Stabbed, he's been- that's what the blood is, got half a cuff on, shallow blade in the side it seems. Going to get him sorted, but he's holding his own. We'll get to the boats if we have to." 

The line abruptly cut off and Greg carefully slipped it back in his pocket. 

Sherlock swore under his breath, French curses barely audible as his foot tapped on the floor of the plane. He squeezed Mrs. Hudson's hand. "Let Lestrade and I help you up. You shouldn't be on the floor. I should check on John." A moment later he was on his feet, helping Mrs. Hudson with gentle movements. Once he and Greg had her settled, Sherlock checked on John, taking his blood pressure and pulse.

John reached out and grabbed hold of Sherlock's wrist, sweating and cold, but somewhat lucid. He looked up at him and spoke in quiet Pashto to keep their conversation between them. "I know you're...you're scared. He's going… s-sounded strong he's going to be okay." 

He closed his eyes again, exhausted and worn out, but still using his strength to grip Sherlock. 

Sherlock startled, voice low, Pashto in return. "I didn't think you were awake. How are you feeling?" His other hand wrapped over John's where it gripped his wrist.

"Not good," he whispered back, holding tighter despite how tired he was. 

Greg walked over to Sherlock and nudged him with his hip. "Just...we will leave you lot alone, just be with John, he calms you down. I'll tell you the moment I hear anything."

Sherlock looked up to Greg and gave a sharp bob of his head. He sat by John's hip. "I have you." Still he stuck to Pashto. "When we get to the house, we'll go to bed and you can rest. Okay? You can sleep this off. I'll find us a doctor, but you keep waking up easier now. I think you just hurt and need time to heal and rest... Some more antibiotics. We have painkillers and additional drugs Molly raided from Mycroft's safe house. I am rambling. My apologies, John. I have not been myself today."

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's formal tone, though he recognized it for a desperate attempt to control his stress. He pulled at Sherlock, demanding that he stretch out next to him just by his movements. "You're s-scared for Mycroft. I get it. They have him in an up-armour, it sounds, h-he's going to be okay." 

That was about all John had in him. He pulled at Sherlock again to drive home that he wanted him with him. 

Sherlock wrapped up around John and clung to him. "And for you," he whispered. "So scared for you too. I was terrified I was losing you earlier. I bloodied Lestrade's nose, Molly punched me..."

John's grip was swiftly loosening on Sherlock's arm, but he was clearly fighting to keep there for him. "'s gonna be alright," he slurred, again grateful for Sherlock's mastery of many languages, "'m just knocked about. I'm… it'll..." he blacked out again, pulled under as his body rejected the effort it took to keep conscious. 

Sherlock tucked his face in against John's neck and wept in silence. John's shirt caught most of the tears as they rolled off Sherlock's face. He took slow, even breaths to keep himself calm while allowing the release of months of pent up sorrow and frustration.

There was no more word the rest of the flight. No one bothered Sherlock during the descent. Right when Greg started to tug at his ears, John let out a shriek of pain, shooting awake and clapping his hands over his ears, gritting his teeth and grimacing.

"Oh, John," Mrs. Hudson cried out in response to his obvious pain, "oh, his head, the pressure must hurt." 

Sherlock winced. "Oh God, I am sorry. Swallow, John, swallow hard. Christ, your eardrums..." He held onto John, trying to soothe him for the descent, wishing he could do more.

John was in tears by the time the plane touched down, rocking himself as he pulled at his ears, struggling to keep breathing properly. Just as the wheels made contact with the ground, Anderson texted Sherlock. 

_We are getting Mycroft to the boat. He's beat up but okay._

Sherlock's phone hit the floor of the plane, because of how his hands were shaking. He scrambled to pick it up as he tried to soothe John at the same time. "I've got you, John. We're going to get you home and to bed." The phone chirped a reminder at him and he read the news from Anderson. His reply was short.

_Landed here. Thank you. SH_

Greg was out of his belt as soon as the plane stopped moving, going to Sherlock's side and touching his shoulder. "Let me get John, you look ready to fall over. Go get in that van and breathe for a second. Molly and I can manage." 

John was still holding tight to his ears, quietly sobbing as pain like he'd not ever known it seemingly tried to prise his head open, a rod shoved white-hot though his ears, making him sick. He was shaking terribly and slicked with sweat. Greg looked down at him and back to Sherlock, "I'll be careful, go get in the van, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked torn, but stood, touching John’s hand before he headed straight for Mrs. Hudson, seeking comfort there and busying himself helping her off the plane. He still shook as they walked down the stairs once Tanners had the door dropped. 

Molly headed back to help Greg with John. "I've never seen him like that," she whispered to Greg.

"Neither have I," Greg returned, deeply worried, "was afraid he'd drop him," he added, unbuckling John and very carefully gathering him up, muttering under John's weight. "Jesus, he's a solid fellow," he breathed, recalling how effortlessly Sherlock had moved with him. John shouted and grit his teeth again, keeping his hands in his hair and his face tucked down, deeply in pain. "Get his things, hopefully it's not far from here." 

He struggled slightly with John but shook his head as Tanners offered help, moving John to the van. 

Sherlock sat with Mrs. Hudson in the van, only moving when Greg got John settled. He was by John's side in the next instant, wrapping his arms around him. "I have you," he whispered.

Molly came along behind them, toting the bags of medicine and Sherlock's pack. Once she was in the van Tanners moved to the driver's seat, Langdon checking the passengers before sliding into the passenger seat.

John turned his face to Sherlock's chest and remained quiet as they began to drive. 

Sherlock's mobile again went off, this time with Mycroft's number. 

_I expect to be there by nightfall. M_

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief against John's head when he read the text. His family was safe. Mummy and Father were stateside, Mycroft was coming... and the rest of them were with him. His voice was soft. "Mycroft inbound, text from him, expected by nightfall."

His reply was a minute in coming as he was trembling with relief.

_I shall see you by nightfall then. Safe travels, My. 'Lock_

The ride took them twenty minutes, following cliffside roads rarely traveled by the state of them, pitching John into horrific pain severe enough that he was constantly losing his grip on consciousness before jerking back to awareness. Mrs. Hudson often was twisted in her seat, speaking softly to Sherlock when she could, trying to reassure him. 

Langdon got out of the van when they arrived at the seemingly forgotten home, greeted at the door by an old groundskeeper. Tanners began unloading Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and Molly, leaving Sherlock to handle John. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, letting him settle before lifting him from the van. He did not speak to anyone except the caretaker, a soft 'thank you' in French as he passed and carried on straight up to his room. John was laid with near reverence on the soft bed.

"You could have another small dose of morphine now, would you like it?"

John wrapped his arms tight around his head and whimpered his answer, needing that to be enough for Sherlock to understand. He was sheet-white and trembling hard, in pain so severe had he anything left in his stomach he'd have lost it by then. The change in pressure during the flight, paired with the van trip there, had been unbearable and left his head splitting. He'd hidden his face as much as he could, though now with just Sherlock in the room, he made no effort to hide that he was in tears. 

"Oh, love... I will be right back." Sherlock near fled, running into Molly in the hall.

Molly turned Sherlock around and shoved him back toward the room, already toting the supplies. She was gentle as she budged Sherlock out of the way. Soft words were spoken to John. "It’s just me, Molly, John. I'm going to give you some medicines again. I'm going to give you a high dose, okay? Going to try to just put you to sleep for a while. Can you just look at me if that's okay?"

John dug his fingers into his hair, nails gouging into his scalp as his voice cracked, "Help." All he wanted in the world at that moment was to black out, and yet despite the way his vision tunnelled and his already fuzzy hearing cottoned out, he infuriatingly remained conscious. 

Molly wasted no more time. She drew up the anti-emetic and pushed it slowly. "This should make you drowsy. I'm switching what I give you, going to give you some other things that I think will work better." Molly switched out the saline bags and pushed another drug, "Just an antihistamine, John." 

Sherlock watched for a moment before he crawled into the bed beside John, touching his arm in a tender way.

After flushing the line once more, Molly pushed a new painkiller. Her voice was soft. "It's a combination that has knocked migraines out for me before." She stood as she watched them. "This should put you to sleep soon, John."

John tucked against Sherlock as much he could, swallowing hard and breathing chaotically as he waited for the darkness. It finally came for him five minutes later, leaving him with bloodied nails and a tear-soaked face. 

Greg found his way up to the room, leaning on the doorjamb. "Anderson called, they put Mycroft on the boat, he's as secure as he can be with your pirate," he whispered, keeping his eye on Molly. She was holding well but had been through a hell of a time herself, and he was wildly protective of her now that he'd thought her gone. 

Sherlock looked up to Greg and then to Molly, "You two should get some rest. You've both been through hell."

Molly smiled to Sherlock. "He should be down for a while. Take advantage of it and rest yourself."

He nodded to her as he worked the covers over John before slipping out of his shoes and tucking in against him.

She headed out to Greg and nudged him out of the doorway, pulling the door to behind her before pressing her head in against his chest. "Those two- Did you know?"

Greg shook his head. "No. Well...no, I mean you and I saw John in hospital and- it's not surprising, I'm frankly glad. Sherlock came back for him constantly, they've been circling around it forever but no. No, I didn't know they finally- well, I guess we don't really know what they finally. John's not right at the moment, he's… that doesn't all seem head injury to me. I have no idea what they are doing." 

Molly let out a long sigh. "They are both very, very broken. I hope they can put one another together again."

The next few hours passed in relative quiet for John, who slept hard under the blanket of painkillers and the mix of medications Molly had given him to keep the pain in his head under control. Mrs. Hudson flitted about with the groundskeepers, fussing over bedding and tea, putting herself firmly into a caregiver role, as she had very little other way to help. She made sure Mycroft's room was set up across the hall from Sherlock and John's, having seen how supremely distressed Sherlock was over his brother. 

There was no word from Mycroft until later that evening, right when Mrs. Hudson went to wake Sherlock for dinner. The bell to the main door chimed, and Tanners, along with Greg, insisted on answering it with weapons drawn. They'd been anticipating a call to collect Mycroft from the docks, but instead he stood, or rather sat, on the main steps with his back to the door, having reached up and behind him to ring the bell. 

"Jesus," Greg swore as he disengaged his weapon and holstered it, going to Mycroft's side and hitting down on one knee. "Anderson wasn't kidding. How the hell did you make it here?" 

Mycroft turned his battered face towards him slowly and stared at Greg, the normal snark and wit gone from him. "Please tell me that my brother is here." 

Greg nodded. "He's resting, with John. Jesus, Mycroft. Let's get you up and in the damn bed. Jesus, fuck." He and Tanners moved in synchronicity to pull Mycroft to his feet with as gentle movements as they could. "Easy, Mycroft. Going to at least get you in here to the sofa to start with, then we'll carry you up to bed. Let Molly have a look at you. Did they treat you at all before you left?"

Mycroft grit his teeth and pressed a hand over his left flank. "Yes. Get my brother," he managed as he sank into the sofa, his shoes caked with mud from the walk he'd forced himself to make. He leaned back, closing his eyes and breathing slowly, "Go get Sherlock." 

Molly squeaked at the sight of Mycroft and moved to the kitchen. While Greg went to retrieve Sherlock, Molly made herself busy gathering everything she needed to clean Mycroft of the worst of the mess. She set a bowl of hot water by the sofa and knelt in front of him. His shoes were drawn off his feet and set aside before his socks went with them. Tender movements cleaned and warmed Mycroft's feet with the clean water. "Don't argue... you saved us all," she murmured.

Greg took the stairs two at a time to get to Sherlock and John's room. Mrs. Hudson was speaking in hushed tones with Sherlock when he got to the doorway. "Sherlock- Mycroft, come."

Sherlock brushed a gentle hand over John's head before he bolted from the bed. He flew down the stairs, taking them in a reckless fashion to get to his brother.

Mycroft did not open his eyes but in soft, rolling French he murmured, "You'll break your neck, 'Lock, slow down. I'm alright," in to the spectacular racket Sherlock was making. Molly, at his feet was helping to chase away the chill and he was grateful for a bit of gentleness after the day, much as he was loathe to admit it. His pain medication was wearing off, and he'd not trusted himself to take any while on the road alone, extremely paranoid of being tracked. 

Sherlock stopped at the bottom of his stairs and sniffed as he smoothed his shirt. He walked into the room, head held proudly, an obvious attempt to collect himself. One look at Mycroft and he broke. Sherlock snatched a blanket from the back of a chair as he strode to Mycroft. The blanket was wrapped around Mycroft's shoulders as he sat beside him on the sofa. "My- Oh God."

Mycroft, in a show of how precarious the day had gone, unabashedly leaned his shoulder heavy against Sherlock, keeping his eyes closed and speaking in quiet French. "See?" He whispered as he extended his arm, exposing the brilliant bruising around his wrists where he'd desperately fought the cuffs, though that was not where he was trying to draw Sherlock's attention. From the edge of his suit coat, which he was still in, he loosed a thin metal wire from the seam, "despite my insistence that you were dramatic, I've had them installed in every single one of my coats." It was his way of explaining to Sherlock that Sherlock had played a crucial role in his escape, even if he had not been physically there. 

His hair was absurd and his face like a boxer's after a match, but he was lucid and steady. 

Sherlock pressed his face against Mycroft's head, the news much needed. His voice was soft, sticking to French. "I am glad I taught you, even if you did call me ridiculous for it. I am only sorry you did come to need it. What the hell is going on in London? How did we miss all of this?"

Mycroft hissed as he shifted, holding a trembling hand over his side where he'd been stabbed. "Didn't miss anything, this- ah-" he shook his head and exhaled a wavering breath, curling his fist tight where he'd been showing Sherlock the pick, looking down in the next moment and speaking English to Molly, "I don't suppose there is anything for pain here, Ms. Hooper? I would be grateful for a bit of water, as well." 

"Molly, Mycroft. Just Molly. Let me go get you something. Did they give you any antibiotics before you came? Because I'll give you some of that too, if they didn't." She pushed herself to her feet.

Sherlock shook his head, "Let me see. We need to get you clothed in clean clothes and warmed up."

Mycroft shook his head, "I do not know. Doubtful. I allowed a medic to stitch it en route, but that is the extent of it. I was held for information." He cleared his throat and kept himself leaned heavy against Sherlock, breathing tight and controlled, deeply in pain but doing his best not to stress his already stressed sibling. 

"Charles… more vindictive than I would ever have anticipated. Additionally, he was stirring the international tensions for years, it seems, and already had this in the works. His death has no impact in this as far as I can tell, save for the involvement of Sebastian M-Moran." He clenched his jaw as he tripped over the name, exhaling slowly to calm himself. 

Molly disappeared to get the bag, grateful for the supplies the plane had held in addition to the ones she'd packed. When she was gone Sherlock set about undressing his brother partially as he spoke.

"So we got swept up in terrorist activities because Charles thought it would be- what? Amusing?" Sherlock's voice was containing a slow simmer of rage. He divested Mycroft of his coat, followed by his shirt. "I think you still have the supplies we laid in long ago. Any tracksuit of yours will swallow you now, but it will be warm."

Mycroft was doing his best to bear Sherlock's handling, but Moran had worked him harsh, thoroughly and mercilessly before the questioning even began and his torso and abdomen, flanks, and shins were incredibly tender as it was. The walk had exacerbated everything, and the ugly row of utilitarian sutures just below his ribs were weeping slightly. "W-With care, Sherlock," he breathed, struggling to keep a grip on himself. 

"I don't believe the t-terrorist activity had-" his voice clipped off as he sat forward a bit and tried to turn, sparking pain across his gut and washing him pale. He went very still as he allowed the sensation to pass, struggling to breathe through it. 

"Oh Christ..." Sherlock's movements turned much more gentle as he saw the forming bruises. He had Mycroft stripped to his waist and took up cleaning Mycroft with the gentlest of touches when the sharpest of the pain had passed.

Molly returned with everything she needed and swore as she took in Mycroft. 

Sherlock looked up. "Quickly, upstairs in the closet of my room. There will be several large tracksuits. Go and retrieve one. I will get this started." He turned his attention back to Mycroft as Molly nodded, moving once more to do their bidding.

"I'm going to start an IV Mycroft. Molly's brought a bag of fluids and pain medicine. Alright?"

Mycroft arched a brow, even with his eyes closed. "I don't know that all that is necessary, Sherlock, I'm just a bit roughed up," he whispered, though he was in a fair bit of pain. "M-Moran holds a bit of a grudge, as you can imagine. I believe h-he is also using. He appeared high while I was in his company. He's being used as a tool, but his leash is much longer than it used to be." 

He was struggling to keep himself sitting upright. "I'm... I need to lie down," he whispered, the adrenaline receding. "I did not want any s-sort of traceable vehicle from the docks to here, so I walked."

"Mycroft..." Christ. Sherlock shook his head. "It's needed." He eased his brother to a prone position on the sofa before starting with the line. "Small prick, blah, blah, blah." 

His movements were efficient as he started the line in Mycroft's non-dominant hand so that he could work easier if he needed to... if the line had to stay in for more than a few hours. He held his tongue just so and sighed with relief when he was able to successfully thread it. Sherlock taped everything down before drawing up the pain killer. "Getting you some relief now, brother."

Sherlock pushed the morphine to a slow count, lips moving in silent concentration. He did not look up when Molly appeared at his side. "Leave it, fetch me more cloths and hot water."

Molly smiled, an indication of how little Sherlock's brusque manner bothered her as she set the track suit beside him before gathering the bowl and soiled cloths. Once more Molly moved to help Sherlock.

Mycroft closed his eyes as warmth flooded up around his skull and down through his shoulders, breathing his thanks to Sherlock. After a few moments, when he could properly articulate, he spoke softly to his brother. "We were not meant to be specifically targeted in this. Moran and his interests were a distraction tactic. I recognize these cells. There- this is trouble that I may not be able to sort, Sherlock." The defeat was clear in his voice as he guarded his side, though deeply relieved from the morphine. 

"This is truly London... truly England under attack then?" Sherlock voiced as he flushed the line. 

Molly returned with more clothes and two bowls of water for Sherlock. She set them next to him as she spoke, "I'll put the antibiotics in the bag and then you can dress him. Mycroft, do you want to rest here or upstairs. I won't hook you up until you're settled where you want to be."

Mycroft opened his eyes and looked up at the stairs warily. He loathed the lack of privacy where he was, though. "I suppose upstairs would be best," he said quietly, moving Sherlock's hands away from him and gripping the back of the sofa to pull himself up to sitting, wincing and breathing slow and controlled. 

"And yes, Sherlock, this is a network attacking the government. I believe I know which network, and I believe I can make a dent in this, but Charles, he did his work well. The only civilian areas to be attacked had to do with you, and I firmly believe that was Moran's doing, capitalizing on the situation. He's piggybacked his revenge on the coat tails of a terrorist attack."

Sherlock nodded as he ran a hand through his hair. "Want me to clean you up and dress you down here, or wait until we're upstairs?"

Tanners ducked his head in then. "We'll carry you up, Sir. No need in you trying to make it up all those stairs. Let me retrieve Langdon."

Mycroft made a face akin to one eating a sour lemon, shaking his head. "I will not be carried, thank you," he insisted, getting to his feet, already wildly unhappy with his state of undress. He carried the IV bag in one hand, slowly moving to the stairs. "I managed a few kilometres, I can m-manage stairs." 

Sherlock made a noise. "Could you possibly not be stupid! At least let me..." There was a large amount of swearing under his breath as he snagged the tracksuit. He insinuated himself under Mycroft's arm on the side he'd not been stabbed and helped take some of his weight. "Stubborn, pig-headed, mulish..." Sherlock continued as they made their way up the stairs and into the room across from his own.

Mycroft was putting a great deal of his weight on Sherlock by the time they made it to his room, his legs trembling under him, breathing rough and laboured. He pulled away from Sherlock as soon as he came within arm's reach of a chair, not enough strength to get him to the bed, sitting down and tipping his face to the ceiling to breathe. 

In the privacy of the room he breathed in quiet French, "H-How did you endure w-weeks of this?"

Sherlock took the opportunity to put Mycroft, with very gentle movements, into the warm shirt he'd carried along. His voice was gentle, French on his lips. "I knew you would find me." He took a soft breath, "And I had John to come home to. Caring was most certainly an advantage." There was no admonition in his voice for his brother when he spoke the words.

Mycroft gripped the arm of the chair, breathing slowly as Sherlock handled him. "How is h-he?" Mycroft whispered, starting to shake, deeply tired and aching even through the morphine. He was exceedingly glad Sherlock had John, for a myriad of reasons. He closed his eyes and began to lean slightly to the side, the day finally catching up to him. 

"I don't know." Sherlock answered, tone honest and open. "He's still not up and not completely right. Kept me going when I was terrified I was losing you." He caught his brother and despite their height and weight difference, bodily picked him up, using all the strength he had to carry him to the bed. Despite the strain on his still weakened body, Sherlock was easy as he settled Mycroft in. "Damn your pride for a moment, by they way." 

His fingers were nimble and gentle as he stripped Mycroft to his pants. The trousers were flung aside before he slid the track bottoms on with easy movements. Fingertips found Mycroft's brow. "Going to hook you up to the antibiotics and get you tucked in. You should rest while you can with that morphine. I've got to check on John soon."

Mycroft nodded and curled to his side, closing his eyes. "You were terrified of losing me. I- that comes as a bit of a surprise." He cleared his throat and tried to find a comfortable way to rest. "Until I know that John is able to care for you, you've little to worry about there, 'Lock."

"Oh, don't be an idiot." Sherlock's voice held fond contempt as he hooked up the IV bag and hung it from the bed. The covers were settled over Mycroft and Sherlock smoothed them down without irritating Mycroft's bruises. "I may rail and fuss at your constant interference. But I don't want you dead, My. Never that..."

Mycroft shook his head, exhausted and nearing sleep. "Go see to John and try to breathe, Sherlock. This will settle in one way or another. Oh, and I believe my official status is KIA, let’s not give reason for that to be doubted for now." 

Sherlock brushed a hand over Mycroft's head. "I won't breathe a word." He slipped out of the room, turning off the lights and closing the door gently behind him. The door was firm as his back as he rested there a moment.

Greg was already in the hall, waiting. When Sherlock slipped out of the room and leaned against the door, he shook his head and walked over to the man, pulling him off the door and into a firm hug without a word. He held him there for several long seconds before speaking. "Molly and I are here to help. Mrs. Hudson can keep everyone fed. Tanners and Langdon are on security. Put those details out of your head, you are not alone." 

He squeezed Sherlock again and then let him go, taking a step back and sweeping his eyes over the man. "Molly can take care of Mycroft for now. Never thought I'd see that man with his hair mussed." 

Sherlock actually laughed aloud at that. "I can't believe he let Molly wash his feet. He's going to be insufferable when he's well... And I am glad for it. I am going to lie back down with John and see if I can't get some actual rest now that- ah, ducks are in a row? Is that what people say?"

Greg smirked and nodded, "Ducks are in a row. Go to sleep, Sherlock." 

John was still down hard, and most of the house was settling in for the night. Mrs. Hudson left out sandwiches, but otherwise put herself to bed, exhausted like the rest of them. Within the hour, it was soon just Greg and Molly, with Langdon outside on watch and Tanners catching a shift for sleep. 

Molly gazed at the fire, holding her hands out to it. "You were upstairs... I caught snippets of Mycroft and Sherlock's conversation. Seems we were targeted by Moran himself, using this terrorist attack to seek vengeance? I don't know." She tucked herself against him more fully, glad to be done with the day.

Greg closed his eyes as Molly leaned against him, deeply enjoying the new, unspoken connection they now shared. He slid an arm around her back and allowed her to lean as she would. "Moran is a man I would put nothing past. We saw how, ah, precarious John was when he lost Sherlock, imagine if he did not have a moral code or empathy? That's what we are dealing with, there. What he did to Mycroft was simply… venting. They'd not even begun questioning him yet." He shook his head and pulled her closer, glad to have her close. For a while there was only the soft crackle of the fire, before Greg's quiet voice broke the silence. "Scared the living hell out of me yesterday. I'm very glad you're safe." 

Molly shifted, pressing her face against his neck. "I thought I was dead. I- and then you were there and then my head was on fire and you were still talking." Her breathing hitched. "When I thought, for that split second, while I was in your arms and he shot me... When I thought I was dead, I was glad you were the one with me."

Greg turned and was suddenly pressing a kiss to the top of her blissfully intact head, wrapping her in a firm embrace and holding her like that for quite some time. He knew how terrifying brushing against violent death was, but Molly… Molly wasn't meant for that. She was too good for that, too...

He tightened his arms around her and inhaled slow and deep, leaned against her, keeping himself as a steady point for her to hold onto. When the air had whistled and her hair abruptly jumped, the small shock through her body felt in his hands, he'd nearly been sick, absolutely sure she was dead. When the hot blood flowed over his fingers, he'd started shouting for help, wrapping around her to protect her from further gunfire despite thinking the worst. It had been an overwhelming relief to see that it was just her small ear that had taken the hit, though he was still incensed that someone would do that to her.

Molly buried herself in Greg's arms, taking comfort there. It took a few minutes, but her body started shaking as she broke down in tears. Away from the Holmes brothers, away from John, away from Mrs. Hudson, all those people who had needed her to be strong she was able to fall apart and have a good cry. Small fingers wrapped in Greg's shirt as she stammered an apology against his neck.

Greg grabbed the throw from the back of the sofa, tossing it over them both as he leaned back, shifting her in his arms so that she could lean against him, and slid his fingers through her hair, keeping his fingers light against her scalp. She'd needed this, and there had been no time. They were all a complete mess, and he was glad that they'd gone to France. The realization that none of them could do a damn bit of good like this sinking in. 

"It's alright, Molly," he whispered, doing his best to make her feel safe and supported, "you've tended everyone else, myself included, now we take care of you." Which reminded him that when Sherlock was back on his feet, Greg was going to blacken his eye to even the field. 

Molly relaxed in increments against him. She nuzzled her face down, breathing him in. Her breathing evened out and her grip relaxed on Greg. After another fifteen minutes had passed it was evident Molly had cried herself to sleep against Greg. She was sleeping peacefully, something she hadn't done since her flat had collapsed on top of her.

Greg shifted and got himself comfortable, stretching out on the sofa with Molly on his chest. The house was quiet and he was done in, allowing his eyes to close and his body to relax. At last the house was sleeping.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks to [Vilestrumpet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vilestrumpet) for her beta and Britpicking and to [beltainefaerie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie) for her beta. They are amazing.  
> -Symphony

Mrs. Hudson was the first one up, other than the caretaker. He'd been up and had stocked the kitchen with enough supplies for a few days. Soon the house was full of the smells of both tea and coffee with a full English right on the heels of the other scents. Somehow Martha Hudson had transformed the kitchen table into something pretty and homey despite the long time it had been since a group had gathered there. 

Molly stirred against Greg as her stomach made a ruckus. She wasn't quite awake though as proven by her attempt to bury herself under him to escape looming consciousness.

Greg shifted in his sleep, tightening his arms around her and drawing the little throw up higher. It was drafty now that the fire was out, but her little frame was warm and inviting and he had no interest in moving, breakfast be damned. 

Upstairs, John was slowly woken up with pain. He shifted beside Sherlock, groaning and putting his hands back up to his head. Nothing around him felt familiar and so he blindly reached out, trying to find Sherlock without opening his eyes. 

Sherlock hummed when John's arm hit him and he murmured softly, "John?" He opened his eyes and turned over on his side. His brows furrowed as he took in John's state. "Oh, John. I'll get you something."

John grabbed hold of Sherlock and pulled at him, moving closer as carefully as he could, trying to put himself in Sherlock's arms. "Don't leave!" he all but shouted, disturbed by half-memories and dreams. He clung to Sherlock's wrist as he tried to breathe through the pain in his head. 

"John, no, not leaving. Please, breathe slow and easy. We are safe, safe in France. Even Mycroft has made it in." Sherlock held John close, eyes closing against the reality he was faced with. John was still down, desperate in his pain.

John tucked his face down to Sherlock's chest, letting go of Sherlock's wrist when it became clear that he was not going to leave. sinking his fingers back into his hair and pulling as he gently began to rock on his side. His breathing was slowly becoming erratic as his consciousness increased, making him hold his breath, exhaling on little whimpers of pain each time. He didn't care where they were, that was beyond his thought process. Pain had him down to something base, stolen away nearly everything that made him John Watson and left in its wake the mess that he was. 

Sherlock flailed for his phone, reaching out for it only to find it dead when he drew it over. "John, I have to get up to get you something for pain." He was gentle as he extracted himself. "I will be right back. I swear it, I'm sorry." Sherlock slid off the bed, not at all quiet on the stairs as he rushed for the medicines.

Greg looked up, startling as Sherlock came flying down the stairs. He shook Molly before sitting them up, "Sherlock?" He asked in deep concern, thinking the worst, "what's wrong?" 

John lay in his bed, tearing at his hair, suddenly screaming out as he was left. He did not understand why Sherlock was gone, and his company had been the only thing holding him in anything close to control of his pain. 

Sherlock let out a low sound of distress as he snagged the bag, John's screaming heard all the way downstairs. He didn't bother to explain before he was tearing back up the stairs.

Molly swore as she kissed Greg's cheek. She scrambled to her feet to dart after Sherlock, following him up the stairs.

Greg groaned and dragged a hand over his face before getting to his feet. John was still in pain and the house still incredibly tense. He followed them up the stairs, worried after all of them. 

John was a faint shade of green, thrown right back into the pain he'd been in the night before, gagging without actually sicking up and tearing ruthlessly at his hair to try and alleviate some of the blistering agony inside of his skull. 

Sherlock went dead calm once he dropped to the bed beside John. He drew up the largest dose he could safely give someone of John's size before Molly stilled his hand. 

"Easy, Sherlock. Halve it, see if we can't get him down where he can talk to us about it."

He took in a sharp breath but did as she instructed before grasping John's IV line and pressing the drug as fast as he could without overwhelming John.

Greg hung back, watching the pair of them. It was a fucking shame that their _physician_ was down. He inhaled slowly and made a mental note to grab Molly after this and tend to her ear, her bandaging was soaked through and a disturbing rust red. Some of her hair had matted to the gauze, and his fingers itched to gently brush it away and take care of her. 

John was swiftly relaxing with the medication, easing off his hold in his hair and attempting to breathe deeper. 

"Easy, John." Sherlock spoke after a long minute. "I- give this a moment longer to work. I'm sorry, I had to-" His voice cracked and Molly put her hand on his shoulder.

"Breathe, Sherlock. Deep breaths. He's okay. He's going to be okay."

Sherlock's voice helped focus him and John did as he was bid, giving the medication a few minutes more to work. He breathed, chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths, still in a good deal of pain, though nothing on the chaotic, electric storm he'd been in. He finally opened his eyes, squinting, catching sight of Sherlock's face and abruptly trying to sit up. "Whaswrong?" he slurred, reaching out for him, "Is Mycroft alright? Why-waswrong?"

Sherlock pushed him back down with a gentle hand before he curled up beside John, burying his face against his chest. His hand wrapped in John's shirt as he breathed through the residing panic.

Molly's voice was soft. "You were screaming, John. Mycroft's fine, resting up across the hall. Sherlock's a little shaken, but he's fine."

John wrapped his arms tight around Sherlock, closing his eyes and swallowing hard. "It's… in-indescribably painful. I- still hurts, it's so-" he shivered and closed his eyes, some of the pain abating in the resulting darkness. He held tight to Sherlock, not wanting him to leave again, still not putting any of it together.

"John," Molly's voice was gentle, "you're having a difficult time. I'm going to see if Mycroft has access to a doctor here. I'm worried about how much pain you're still having."

Sherlock clung to John, unable to do anything else.

John shook his head. "N-No, we can't bring in… in more people I- we flew, yeah? We flew? I remember...flying. Right? Pressure and-" he exhaled slowly and shook his head, "no doctors it j-just hurts. I- it's fine." He stopped to breathe, wanting to catch his breath before he tried again. "Sherlock...we f-flew, yeah?"

"From the safe house to here, yes." Sherlock looked up at him, chin resting on John's chest. "We flew. Then we took a van here from the airstrip.

Molly smiled. "Okay, I need to check on Mycroft and then tend to my ear. I'll see if Mrs. Hudson will bring breakfast up. You two have to try to eat something. We cannot handle both of you going down completely. We can't. You have to eat. John, there's antiemetics in the bag, if you have to have some, that's fine. You two have to eat."

John was still in brilliant pain, and the idea of food was nearly intolerable. "O-Okay," he whispered, closing his eyes and swallowing against the nausea that came with just the thought of food. He let go of Sherlock, sinking his hands back in his hair, shielding his face again. He didn't want to eat. He wanted to sleep and he wanted… sleep. That's all he wanted. He waited while Molly and Greg made their way out before whimpering in defeat, bordering tears which instantly made his head ache terribly. 

Sherlock took in a breath. "No," he whispered. "Easy, come here. We'll rest for now. Come here." He settled where John could tuck in again his chest. "Come here, let's try to rest first. Please?"

John tucked down against Sherlock, still holding his head. "I can't eat! I- I'll be sick and being s-sick hurts so f-fucking bad, I d-don't want to eat," he cried, whimpering quietly against Sherlock's chest. "M-Molly… why is she angry?"

"Molly isn't angry, John. Not at all. Your head is making it difficult to discern emotions. She has had a flat collapse on her and been shot by Sebastian Moran. Far more likely she is stretched to her limit taking care of everyone because it's what she does." Sherlock kissed his head. "Alright, we won't eat yet. Calm. Slow, deep, breaths. No one is angry."

John clung to Sherlock and closed his eyes, swallowing rapidly, trying to calm himself down after becoming so swiftly worked up. He curled his fingers in Sherlock's shirt and breathing slowly as he could make himself, listening to his heart in his own ears. He understood that they were not safe, that something had exploded very near his face, that Molly was upset and Greg was upset and Sherlock was upset and Mycroft missing. 

And Mary was dead. Mary was dead and Ellie was gone and he'd said goodbye and the house was on fire. 

"No," he breathed, suddenly sitting up and gagging, "Mrs- _no_ ," he sobbed, suddenly recalling his dream and mistaking it for reality, remembering the way the small elderly woman looked crushed under the rubble. 

"John? John... Everyone is _safe_." Sherlock wrapped his arms around John. "Mycroft, Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. They are all here in the house and safe."

John settled his head back down on Sherlock's chest, still breathing overly fast, trying to get control of himself. "Mary though… M-Mary is still… she's not here anymore."

Sherlock's breath hitched. "No- she's not. But given the circumstances, I think I know who killed her."

John went very still and very tense. He held his breath as he tried to force his brain to function, to understand what in the hell was going on. Magnussen had killed her and she was dead and gone with his daughter and Baker Street had been blown up and Sherlock nearly died and his head was on fire and- " _STOP_!" 

He shrieked the command, instantly clapping his hands over his ears as his own sound hurt him. He cried out and shook his head, sobbing, tucking back down against Sherlock. "Don't die, y-you don't die. That's- y-you don't die," he breathed in a mantra to Sherlock, overwhelmed and confused, tears slowly sliding down his cheeks. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly around John. "I'm not. John, I am not going anywhere. I'm healthy. I am. I am okay." He rubbed John's back, desperate to soothe him back down.

John continued to refuse to speak to anyone but Sherlock for over a week even as his head improved. Each day he was up a little more, taking in more food and using less painkiller to get by. The concussion was stubborn but as the days passed, John grew better. 

Sherlock spent the days flitting in and out of the room long enough to speak with Mycroft and retrieve food. Otherwise the two men, formerly of 221B Baker Street, sequestered themselves in their room sometimes staying silent for hours, wrapped up in one another's arms, staring at each other. Other times they spoke about everything from how many dead tube stations there were, to long, perfectly plotted ways to track and kill Sebastian Moran.

On the ninth day as Mycroft was sitting with two laptops, reclining in his bed, he received a call. A soft, "Yes Ma'am, of course, Ma'am," was heard in the background as Harry came on the line. "Mycroft? Hello..."

Mycroft sat up and smoothed a hand over his hair subconsciously. "Harry," he answered softly by way of greeting, not at all having expected to hear from him. 

"Yes, well, there have been reports from the upper echelons that your official demise was a smoke screen. I am glad to hear it confirmed. My employer wishes to know if the Baker Street team is safe and well..." Harry's voice was somewhat strained.

Mycroft was deeply grateful for the familiar contact. He sat up straighter and spoke calmly, "I am interested in _your_ interest in them, Harry." It was a pitfall of his profession. Suspect everyone, vet them all, never hope for the best and always be prepared for the worst. James Moriarty had framed Sherlock to such a degree that Sherlock's suicide was the only way to get anyone of import to critically examine the evidence. 

"They're wanted for field work, Mycroft. While there have been forward movements here, no doubt due to whatever help you are giving, there are fringe elements that we believe Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson uniquely suited for finding and- disposing of." Harry's voice was open, more blunt than normal. 

"I see," Mycroft answered slowly. John and Sherlock had been so far off form that it had been difficult even for him to predict their movements and actions. On the one hand, work may be exactly what they needed. On the other… Sherlock had dabbled into darkness in his years away that Mycroft did not much care for him to repeat. "Harry, while I've no doubt the results you're after can be produced, I must inform you of the, shall we say, unpredictable nature of their status." 

Harry let out a soft hum, "We are aware, of course, of Sherlock's actions in the very recent past. We are also aware that given his wife's murder, Dr. Watson has been- off. But, please, voice your concerns."

Mycroft put his hand in the air and then winced as it pulled at his side. "You've voiced them. I'm sure you understand the depth of the issues involved with what you've said. This, of course, will not even be considered unless I can be guaranteed their immunity from repercussions." 

"Their particular brand of instabilities are what we need right now. So long as they do not take to torturing and killing civilians, they were never even here during this. As far as the Crown is concerned, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson are still convalescing in France." Harry cleared his throat. "They will operate like any agent normally would while undercover and the same courtesies extended to them. London is still unsettled, its attentions will not be on a consulting detective and his blogger. Does this meet your approval?"

Mycroft closed his eyes and gave himself a moment, running through a myriad of outcomes and whittling down to the most likely three, of which their potential for coming to fruition were nearly equally divided. 

How he loathed Coin Toss gambles. 

The tipping point was, of course, that Sherlock and John were going to do as they liked regardless of his intervention. It would be best, then, to allow for this and have some modicum of control. 

"Send me what you know, Harry, and I will push them in that direction." 

"Sending through normal emergency channels. Let me know if they're coming back so I can spread word they're to be left alone. Thank you, Mycroft." Harry rang off, already relaying the tentative news.

Mycroft stared at his mobile for a few minutes, closing his eyes and letting himself take a moment to hope for the best. With a deep breath, he stood up, wincing, and walked out of his room, crossing the hall and lightly knocking on Sherlock and John's door. 

Sherlock looked up at the door and hummed. "Come in, Mycroft." His voice was muffled from where he had his face buried against John's shoulder as they sat on the bed talking about nothing, but communicating volumes.

John looked up slowly as Mycroft opened the door. He was still wounded, and John had been tending to him as he was able. It grated on his nerves to no end that Mycroft had been handled so severely by Moran, and outside of Sherlock, Mycroft was the only person that was able to coax more than a handful of words out of John. 

Mycroft closed the door behind him and took a chair as soon as he was able, fingers laced at his lap, leaving his feet on the ground as it deeply hurt to cross his ankle over his knee. 

"Gentlemen. I've just been on the line with Harry." 

Sherlock arched a brow as he rested his chin on John's shoulder to better look at Mycroft. "I do hope he’s being quiet on your demise being an exaggeration." He nuzzled his nose behind John's ear, still watching Mycroft. "What does the government want?"

Mycroft slid into the conversation on a jarring note, needing to test Sherlock for a moment. "They want John," he opened with, allowing the pause to hang overly long before adding, "the both of you, really. They've asked you be handed over." 

Sherlock tightened his grip on John, a kiss pressed to his temple as his jaw clenched long enough for Mycroft to notice. His voice dropped, eyes narrowing. "Handed over? John's done nothing wrong. He was, for the most part, unconscious when we escaped to France. I'll not allow them to arrest him for aiding and abetting my 'escape' from England."

Mycroft leaned forward, carefully watching them both. John himself had no reaction whatsoever, seemingly resigned to anything they'd hand his way. He'd not so much as deepened his frown. 

"I rather figured not," he said quietly, shifting back once more. "They are interested in your services more than your incarcerations." 

"Services? Explain." Sherlock sat up further, not as buried against John. His gaze was intense, focused on Mycroft.

Mycroft turned his focus to John as he spoke. "Our people are over-occupied with the terror cell causing the largest percentage and most concerning damages, though it seems that one Sebastian Moran is terrorizing London, and they would benefit from your particular… methods." 

Something dark flashed in Sherlock's eyes and he tipped his head to John's once more, whispering against his ear. "It won't bring them back, but we could take him down, John."

John had his focus locked to Mycroft, slowly tilting his head just a touch to the side as he put that in mind. "Why? You would never put him in this sort of situation. Why?" His tone was flat, but it was more than he'd spoken to any of them in days. "He's just come off arrest and you want to set us after a man you know we will slaughter. How does this end without Sherlock sent off to die?" 

Mycroft leaned back in his seat and gave John the smallest smile of approval he could, nodding once as he tented his fingers in front of his chest, elbows on the armrest. "You've been granted immunity so long as you do not harm civilians and you keep civilian property damage minimal." 

John shook his head. "Words. Those are words. Where are the concrete assurances? Otherwise he remains here with you." 

Sherlock made a noise of discontent. "I'll be damned if you go by yourself. No, absolutely not. Mycroft, are we to be officially employed for this?" His hand splayed across John, voice dropping. "I won't let you do this on your own."

John did not respond to Sherlock other than to wrap a hand around his wrist, leaning into his hand. 

Mycroft hummed and looked away for a moment. "Not officially, no. John, surely you understand that there will be no keeping my brother from you if you leave. It is not possible, outside of incarcerating him, and I do not for a moment imagine you not to know this as a truth. The Prime Minister is the driving force interested in your services, this is as much assurance as I have to offer. He is my brother. I've no interest in seeing him behind bars." 

John huffed and clicked his tongue, clearly not satisfied with that. He gripped Sherlock tighter, bodily putting Sherlock behind him. With his family gone and all else in ruins, he would rabidly defend the man. As far as John Watson was concerned, there was _nothing_ not see him incarcerated again." 

Mycroft drew in a sharp breath and the expression he wore made it clear that he had doubts. "John, you must see-" 

John shook his head, cutting him off with a tight, dangerous smile as he spoke. "I swear to god Mycroft Holmes if you say _reason_..." 

Sherlock watched Mycroft and pressed a kiss behind John's ear. "Easy. We're not going to be arrested and we are not firing in a Tesco... but we will destroy him, John. I swear it."

Mycroft looked pointedly at his brother and stood up, slowly walking out of the room without another word. He made it clear with that look that Sherlock was to sort it, decide if they could manage this or not. 

John was nearly ready to peel out of his skin. The entire conversation had fired up far too many conflicting emotions at once. He sat frozen in place, staring at the door as it closed behind him. "I don't trust this." 

Sherlock put his forehead to John's neck. "We're going together or I will follow. I don't trust it implicitly either... but Mycroft does."

John inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, hands starting to shake. "I get it now," he breathed, voice deep and steady.

John nodded, closing his eyes, "If I had a way, now, I'd do it to you. I don't want you to come with me. I will not be able to bear it if something happens to you."

Sherlock was silent for a moment as he processed that. There was a small sigh from him before he spoke. "And I feel the same way. John, I think we're well past the point of ever hoping to leave each other alone again."

John leaned back from Sherlock and raked a hand through his hair. "I don't want you to come with me. I want you to stay right here and hold Mycroft to his word, to keep the others safe. I don't want you with me."

Sherlock tucked his face to the side of John's neck. The words he spoke were muffled, "And I don't want you going by yourself. John... it will destroy me completely if something happens to you."

John went quiet for the next several minutes, outwardly calm while the chaos in his mind churned on. He finally spoke quietly, though back down to his clipped phrases. "Okay." 

He loathed it, and for the moment was deeply bitter with Sherlock. "You are fortunate to even have a say in it." 

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath. He almost pulled away, his arms twitching where John had a grip on him. "What do you want from me?"

John let him go, feeling how tense Sherlock had just become. He gripped his knees and stared down at his feet on the floor, jaw working. What did he want from Sherlock? He was a nauseating mix of bitterly angry with the man, chest tight with pent-up aggression, his own voice in his ears as he screamed for Sherlock as his feet left the roof; paired with twisting, aching relief that Sherlock was still with him, still seemed to love him, and still had no desire to leave him. John was nearly paralyzed in the wake of it, hardly able to focus his energy on the idea of Sebastian Moran. 

"I-" he shook his head, his knuckles blanching on his knees. He grit his teeth and went quiet again as he struggled to master himself. 

Sherlock slipped from behind John and pushed him gently back to the bed before crawling up over him. He looked down, searching John's face. "I don't want us to be angry with one another. I know you're still- what I did hurt you and that wasn't my intent. I was-" He took a deep breath. "I was wrong to have left you behind. So very wrong. I wish I hadn't. Please, John, forgive me."

John stared at Sherlock's face. "If you're having me on again, I'll put you through the damned window," he breathed, wanting to properly forgive Sherlock and too tangled up in the mess to manage it. 

"I swear I am not having you on, not after all of this, John. Not after everything. I wouldn't. I love you far too much to do something like that." Sherlock's words and face were open, honest. There was a vulnerability there only John Watson ever got to see.

John reached up and sank his fingers in Sherlock's hair, pulling him down and abruptly kissing him. He'd not done so in days, and now he was throwing his anger and his deep relief at having Sherlock with him into it, nearly pulling too hard on his curls as he parted his lips. 

Sherlock let out a sound of relief before he returned the kiss with everything that he had, all of the love he had for John as he straddled his hips. His hands curled in John's shirt as they kissed, a small whimper escaping him, conveying how much he'd missed it, needed it, and damn near been lost without it.

John slid one of his hands to the back of Sherlock's head, bringing him down closer. The soft noises Sherlock was making prompted him to sweep his tongue along Sherlock's lower lip before testing the sharpness of his teeth.

Seconds later John was a rush of activity, pulling at Sherlock and breathing fast, rolling up against him as he channelled anger and loss in their movements.

Sherlock gasped before moaning against the kiss. He nipped at John, hips rocking down, eliciting another gasp from him. John's name was moaned against his mouth. There was a tinge of desperation to Sherlock's movements as he tried to get closer to John despite their proximity.

John hissed against Sherlock's lips as the man rocked down against him. Up to that point their tentative touching and rare kissing had been little more than a deeper expression of things confused and unsaid. This… this was more.

He dropped a hand to Sherlock's hip, keeping the other at the back of Sherlock's head, pulling at him to encourage Sherlock to repeat the motion as he slipped his tongue along Sherlock's, tasting him with a rough sound of approval.

Sherlock made a clipped sound of want as he rolled his hips again the sound cut off by a low moan of pleasure at the kissing and the way it felt to grind his hips against John.

His hands ran down John's sides, dipping under the hem of his shirt and rucking it up enough to feel John's skin. A small whimper escaped him at the warmth.

John bent a knee up at Sherlock's side as Sherlock yanked up his shirt, nipping at Sherlock's lips, suddenly returning the motion, dragging Sherlock's shirt out of his trousers. He hooked his fingers under Sherlock's belt, holding tight as he pulled Sherlock to move against him again.

Sherlock moaned as he rocked against John again, his breathing growing ragged. There was a small whine from Sherlock as he scrabbled to push John's shirt up higher, a plea for more.

John was swift as he shifted them, flipping Sherlock with a leg swept under his, abruptly pushing Sherlock down to the bedding as he tore off his own shirt, tossing it aside, kneeling between Sherlock's knees as his fingers flew down the row of Sherlock's buttons. As soon as the material parted under his hands he slid his palms along Sherlock's pale chest as he leaned down, sinking his teeth to the skin just under Sherlock's jaw. 

Sherlock cried out as he tipped his head back further for John. Blunt nails dragged down John's back as he arched against him. "John..." The name was moaned as Sherlock’s hands found the waistband of John's jeans and used it as leverage to rock against John once more.

John could not listen to him, could not stand speech when he was tossed in such conflicted chaos, moving in the moment and exorcising his demons in a way that he would have found intolerable years ago. He dropped his hand out of Sherlock's hair and pressed it over his mouth as he worked his way down the side of Sherlock's neck, following his pulse until he hit the join of neck and shoulder, drawing that flesh into his mouth until he overwhelmed the capillaries, drawing up a mark. 

Sherlock moaned against the hand over his mouth, fingers clenching against the material in his hands. His breathing was wrecked already, a shiver running through him at John's ministrations. John's presence was overwhelming, Sherlock's brain shuttering itself against any other input. For this moment, there was only John.

John's free hand dropped between them, driven forward hard by the hot breath against his palm, suddenly working at Sherlock's trousers. He budged his knees up tighter against the backs of Sherlock's thighs. John angled Sherlock's head back nipping along Sherlock's collar bone and dipping his tongue into the suprasternal notch that had captured his attention more times than he cared to admit. 

His fingers flew over Sherlock's fly as he began to mouth up the the centre of his throat, teeth tracing Sherlock's trachea without pressure, constantly tasting him, humming roughly as he dragged down Sherlock's zip. 

Sherlock was panting against John's hand. There was a low whine born of pure desire that vibrated under John's mouth. He was squirming under John, desperate and needy. Everything had been normal and then it wasn't. Sherlock had desired this for- his brain supplied an image of John licking his lip that first night at Angelo's, images of every time John had sent any thrill through him, no matter how small or large and he whimpered, undeniably aroused to the point of aching.

John moved his hand away to recapture Sherlock in a desperate kiss, driven forward hard by the need to exercise some of his tension. He'd been in a place where he was either going to slam Sherlock against the wall and beat him to a pulp, or _this_ , and he had no interest in blood on his hands. 

He grabbed one of Sherlock's forearms, pinning it down beside Sherlock's head as he dipped his hand into Sherlock's pants, kissing the man breathless, wrapping his fingers around his cock and pulling him free of his pants. 

Sherlock's hips bucked into John's hand as he gasped. He renewed the kiss with fervour. His other hand moved up, coming to rest beside his head, opposite the pinned one. John was in control and Sherlock was going to try his damnedest to give him everything he needed. 

The hand around him narrowed his focus even further to John. John over him, powerful, overwhelming, _everything_.

John tightened his hold on Sherlock's wrist as he began the slow slide of his fist over Sherlock. He'd never anticipated, well, any of this, even when it was obvious that's where they were going, he'd never anticipated...

He rumbled into Sherlock's mouth, shifting so his thighs were even tighter pressed to the back of Sherlock's thighs, Sherlock’s legs splayed against his hips. His fingers skillfully moving over Sherlock.

Sherlock’s chest rose and fell hard as John's hand slid over him. He could feel every callus, every line in John's skin there and it was beautiful. His breath caught and hitched as he nipped at John's lower lip. A shudder ran through Sherlock as he tried to keep himself from completely falling apart under John before anything had begun.

John pulled back from Sherlock's lips, breathing harshly as he looked down at him, his fingers constantly working over Sherlock in swifter, more demanding strokes. He said nothing as he stared at him intensely, all his energy focused on this. He swept his thumb over the head gathering the natural moisture to ease the glide of his palm, before leaning in and biting along Sherlock's jaw. 

His hand flexed on Sherlock's arm as he resumed sitting up and staring down at him. "You are _not_ going to leave me again. You will _not_ sacrifice yourself for me. We are in it all _together_ or we won't be at all," he growled, his lips brushing over Sherlock's as he spoke, keeping them very close to the other. 

Sherlock's mouth went dry and he whimpered. He couldn't control his breathing as he gazed up at John. "N-no. I won't. Never again." His hips stuttered against John's hand and his free hand curled tightly into the sheet beside his head. "Together, always together." _Christ_. The way John was handling him was driving Sherlock toward orgasm faster than anything else ever had. "John..." 

Holding Sherlock's eye, John increased the speed of his hand just slightly, giving a small twist on the upstroke. He was suddenly kissing Sherlock forcefully, angry and possessive as he parted Sherlock's lips with his own, rolling his hips forward behind his own fist. 

A sharp cry was wrung from Sherlock. His body bucking against John as he struggled to keep from coming yet. There were pleading moans in the kiss as Sherlock tried in desperation to hold out against John's onslaught.

John managed to angle Sherlock's head to the side, biting down along his neck and drawing up a possessive mark as he carried on working his fist over Sherlock, trying to drive him to the edge. He was relentless as he stroked Sherlock, his own hips rocking in time with Sherlock's, sliding his hand up from Sherlock's wrist to hold his arm down with his palm over Sherlock's, lacing their fingers together.

The bite made Sherlock gasp, his fingers clenching around John's. His hips stuttered once more before he was coming hard between them, body shuddering. John's name whimpered and moaned as Sherlock tried to tip his head against John's. Sherlock panted, struggling to catch his breath.

As Sherlock began to come down, John gentled his hold, kissing him slowly along his jawline and then softly at his lips when he'd regained control of his breathing. "It's alright," he breathed against Sherlock's lips, dropping to his side and pulling Sherlock into his arms, "it's alright." 

Sherlock buried himself in John's arms, tucking his head under John's chin as he struggled to sort his own reactions in his head. A hand wrapped around John's side, Sherlock anchoring himself, trying to stay grounded.

John wiped his hand on the duvet before running his fingers over Sherlock's back, hooking his calf over Sherlock's legs to bring him in closer. "It's alright," he repeated, closing his own eyes as his heart pounded against his ribs. He wasn't exactly sure what he'd been thinking, making a move like that. "I… just breathe, just breathe," he encouraged, growing increasingly ashamed of himself for his actions. 

Sherlock let out a small huff. "Of course it's alright... that was-" there was a low hum in his throat. "That was fucking _brilliant_ ," he continued after a moment. His face tilted up and he nuzzled along John's jaw before drawing back just enough to look at him. "John?" Sherlock's brow furrowed as he looked at him, concern creeping into his face.

John leaned down and kissed him again, gently, much more subdued than before. He slid his fingers through Sherlock's curls and inhaled slowly, gathering himself, relieved that Sherlock was alright. "Don't think I've been on the receiving end of 'brilliant' before."

Sherlock nuzzled along John's jaw once more before pillowing his head against John's chest once more. "Mm, well, I should tell you that more often because you are... in so many ways. I've taken you for granted too often."

John exhaled slowly after Sherlock relaxed against him. He carried on trailing his fingers through Sherlock's hair as his mind slowly picked up in chaotic activity. He was forced to continuously shove thoughts of Mary away, slowly steeping in guilt, as though he'd been unfaithful to her. The idea grew despite his efforts to contain it, leaving his throat tight and his eyes burning. He'd been so _angry_ with Sherlock and it had manifested in that desperate need to know that Sherlock heard him, that Sherlock would focus and would not deceive him again. 

He pulled the skin of his cheek between his back molars, grinding down as he worked to settle himself. He'd not been unfaithful. His wife was dead. She was gone, and she knew he loved Sherlock, and she wouldn't hold this against him. She wouldn't. _She wouldn't_. 

Sherlock's thumb traced circles against John's hip. He was surprised at the drowsiness that threatened to overwhelm him as they relaxed together on the bed. John was tensing in a slow, building fashion under him and he nuzzled John's chest in an effort to soothe him.

"I suppose I should go have a word with Mycroft," John said after another ten minutes of lying there, keeping his voice quiet as Sherlock seemed to be drifting off. He personally needed a change of clothes, not having cared at all about the mess they would inevitably make with his handling of Sherlock. The strain in his voice was clear, if not very slight, as he was determined to keep himself in check. Mycroft would want answers, and likely an apology for his less than ideal behaviour. 

Sherlock looked up at him. "John?" Something was _wrong_. Guilt tinged John's- _Oh_. He cleared his throat and sat up. "You don't have to speak to him if you don't want to..."

John waved it off, shaking his head. "He'll be in a strop or he won't," he said quietly, not particularly fussed over Mycroft. Again he worked his cheek between his teeth before speaking, doing his best to write off the tension. "He's going to need an ETA anyhow, and I need my sodding firearm back." 

Sherlock chewed on his lip. "It's still in the safe at his house. I don't know if it's safe to retrieve your personal one... but I'm quite certain we'll be able to arm you." His voice dropped softer, "Thank you..."

John looked in open confusion at Sherlock. "What the hell are you thanking me for?"

Sherlock blinked at him and ran a hand over his face, trying to bat away the drowsiness. "This, us, all of it."

John very nearly snapped at him, though it wasn't any of Sherlock's doing and more his own guilt and insecurity with the entire situation. He looked away and slowly pushed himself up, running a hand over the back of his neck after swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He dropped his elbows to his knees and scrubbed at his face. 

_He's scared, John._

_What? 'course he's not scared._

_He is, just look at his face. He's scared things will change. You need to run him…_

Sherlock didn't say anything and reached for John before snatching his hand back, afraid he'd make things worse. He slipped off the bed, holding his trousers up with one hand, a soft, "Be right back," on his lips. A few minutes later the sink in the ensuite was running. Sherlock came back out with a warm flannel for John and had changed into his dressing gown. 

He didn't speak as he went to his knees in front of John and cleaned his skin. Sherlock kept his eyes down as he did.

John caught his wrist and sank his other hand into Sherlock's curls, pulling tight for half a second before gently tipping Sherlock's head back, curls gathered into his fist at the base of Sherlock's head, leaning in and gently pressing a soft kiss to Sherlock's lips. He let him go a moment later and cleared his throat, averting his eyes. "I feel… it's so _stupid_ … I feel unfaithful." His voice failed to hold steady on the final word, dipping and wavering for a moment. 

Sherlock's voice was gentle. "It's not stupid. It isn't. Even if this part had been established before-" He took in a hitching breath before continuing. "Even then it would likely feel the same way. I will wait, John. I will always wait. This- this you do at your pace. Before this, I wouldn't have understood. I'd wonder why you felt that way. I would have found it stupid... but it's _not_ stupid."

John scrubbed a hand over his face and leaned back, nodding in response to Sherlock as he shuttered himself off. "Get dressed. I'm going to talk to Mycroft and then we are going to hunt that man down."  
He stood up and gathered up his bearings, throwing on a shirt and heading out, looking for Mycroft.

Mycroft was sitting on the bed once more, surrounded by his laptops and paperwork. He looked up as the door to Sherlock and John's room opened, expecting Sherlock. His eyebrows rose slightly as John appeared.

John walked over and sat down in a chair opposite Mycroft, lacing his fingers between his knees and looking at the ground for a moment.

"Alright. First, I apologize. To imply that you would be willfully risking Sherlock without consideration… was out of line."

Mycroft bowed his head in acknowledgment, "Accepted. I hardly hold it against you, John. To say things have been trying for you as of late is a gross understatement." He watched John for a moment before continuing. "I take it the two of you have reached a decision."

John looked up at him then, his expression cold and shuttered. "Yes, though I wish you'd brought this only to me. I would have left him here, and am only taking him because he will follow anyhow. You must be aware of our odds for survival."

He let that hang for a moment. "I have to be armed. I would prefer him to be as well."

Mycroft sighed. "John, had you left him here you would have been separated long enough for him to track you down. I don't think he would have been subtle or quiet about it either." He nodded, "Arming you is not a problem. When you land in England someone will meet you with whatever you need. Make me a list, within reason, I'm not arming you with explosives. By the time you land you'll be armed."

John stared at him for a full minute, jaw working, fingers flexing and relaxing as he thought on it all. "I won't lose him. I need you to understand that I will put a round in anyone who becomes a threat without hesitation. If you only want Moran dead, arm me, detain Sherlock here, and give me three days."

"That is not what has been asked of us, John. Of the two of you. They want you to discover and take out what you can." Mycroft's words were as gentle as he could make them.

John nodded then, getting to his feet. "You would be wise to warn that I will fire on anyone attempting arrest. Sherlock and I will be ready to leave in half an hour."

He left Mycroft sitting there and headed back to Sherlock.

Mycroft stared after him and set about contacting Harry and putting all warnings in place. John Watson was as close to unhinged as he'd ever seen.

Sherlock looked up as John came back in. He was dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved tee. He moved across the room and wrapped his arm around John's waist. "Alright?"

John hummed and wrapped a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, sliding the other around his back and drawing him in close. "I love you," he whispered against the side of Sherlock's head. He held him there, his grip hard and his breathing steady and even. John was prepared for battle, though he deeply regretted not being able to leave Sherlock behind where it was safe. 

He finally drew back and inhaled deeply. "Alright. We have people to kill."

Sherlock gazed down at him. "Then let us prepare for war." His jaw was set but he kissed John's forehead. "What do you want to take from here?"

John stepped back and swept his eyes around the room. "Nothing, really. We are damn well going home and getting some of our things from there. Mycroft will arm us at the airstrip. We need to say our goodbyes, and then we need to go." 

Sherlock thought about arguing the state of Baker Street but did not. "I am ready then." He licked his bottom lip as he looked at his coat. "Hardly inconspicuous is it?"

John ran his hand down the well familiar material. His daughter would have cradled there often. 

"We do not need inconspicuous. I intend for Moran to be down in the next ten hours, we do not need to hide. Not yet." 

Sherlock plucked his coat from where it was draped over the post of the bed and slid into it. Mrs. Hudson had managed to clean it of the reek of smoke. "Then let's go say goodbye." Even the coat did not cover the one claiming bite John had left on his neck toward the front and Sherlock wore it like some soldiers wore their decorations.

Greg looked up from where he had Molly tucked against his side on the sofa, gently rubbing her neck just under her injured ear. He frowned as John led, both of the men clearly dressed to leave. "What's this, then?" 

John paused, looking at Greg and Molly's positions and smiled, openly glad of it. Molly had been so very alone, and Greg had needed a companion. He’d always fancied Molly, seemingly thinking that none of them knew. He nodded to the pair of them as he approached. "Sherlock and I have to leave. Business we can help with. We might be gone until it is safe for you lot to come back to London. 

Molly blinked as she leaned into the touch and looked both of them over. Her eyes widened at the mark on Sherlock's neck, though she stayed quiet..

Sherlock cleared his throat. "We'll see you when it's safe for you to come back. Lestrade, do take care of her. I'll need my pathologist when everyone returns home."

"Now hang on,” Greg said, having decided that he did not at all care for this situation. “Don't the pair of you have targets painted on your foreheads? If it's not safe for us, it's sure as hell not safe for you two." 

John moved forward as Greg was speaking, crouching down in front of Molly, looking at her ear for a moment before looking back to her. He'd not said more than five words to them all week, and now they sat with the high probability of never seeing one another again. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her, heedless of Greg's own arm at her back, and drew her in for a firm hug. Against the side of her head at her good ear, he whispered quietly enough that only she would hear. "Thank you for everything, Molly. Everything." 

Molly's face crumpled as she wrapped her arms around John, holding him close. Her voice cracked as he tried to whisper. "Be careful... Please, I don't want to lose either of you." John's words sounded like goodbye.

Sherlock folded his arms behind his back. "We are needed. We’re going."

John snapped his fingers at Sherlock and held up a finger in his direction without looking away from Molly, keeping her close to his chest and finally, after a solid minute, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek and drawing back. He stood up slowly and looked to Greg, and the pair of them exchanged an entire conversation with a single look and a nod. 

"See you later," John said quietly, turning and brushing past Sherlock, supremely irritated with him as he opened the main doors and walked out onto the porch, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

Sherlock scowled as he followed John, wrapping himself in his coat. The van was out front, one of the men in the driver's, waiting on them. Sherlock's jaw worked but he stayed silent, unwilling to start an argument.

John waited until the van was in motion before looking to Sherlock. His voice was calm when he spoke, though it was unyielding and steady. "Molly deserved a proper goodbye." 

Sherlock snapped at the driver to stop and was out of the van before it had fully quit rolling. He stalked back up to the house, startling Molly and Greg both when he flung the door open. Sherlock moved to her, sweeping her into a massive hug, holding her close. His voice was soft when he finally spoke. "I will do my best to keep us both safe."

Greg watched the pair of them, startled to no end by the display. 

Molly leaned into Sherlock, arms around his waist over his jacket, eyes closed and breathing tightly controlled. "Please do," she whispered, stepping back and cupping her hand to the side of his face, staring at him for a moment more before holding her own wrist in front of her waist. It was clear that Sherlock and John both planned on something that would likely kill them. 

Greg held his tongue, simply nodding at Sherlock as he stepped to the side and gathered Molly to him. 

Sherlock nodded to Greg and swept back out of the house, climbing back into the van. When Tanners asked if he was ready, Sherlock nodded to him before looking over to John.

John reached out and took Sherlock's hand, saying nothing as he watched the landscape out the window. "It's beautiful here," he remarked after a few minutes of silence, not having seen any of it on their arrival. 

Sherlock smiled as he looked out. "It is. We spent a few summers here. I must have been four to six... Mycroft eleven to thirteen. It's never been listed as any sort of family holding. It looked like the family rented the place for the summer then."

John nodded as he watched the ocean peek over the edges of the cliffs. "Would have been nice to explore with you," he said quietly, after a time. "I like listening to you speak other languages, and French on your lips was… a rare treat." 

Sherlock tipped his head to John's, French on his lips, "I love you." He was silent for a few minutes before speaking English again. "We'll come back."

John responded with a non-committal hum, putting to his own mind the way those words sounded when Sherlock uttered them. It was nice to imagine they'd have the chance to come back, that they'd survive this, even if he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it. He squeezed Sherlock's fingers gently and carried on watching the countryside as they moved towards the airfield. 

Sherlock squeezed back, thumb brushing over John's hand. He watched the world moving on while their own was stopped, hung in time by violence, terror, and tragedy. 

They were to fly in a tiny plane this time, nothing like Mycroft's jet from earlier. The propellers spun at the front of the aircraft as they loaded on, empty handed for the most part, and settled in to the cabin. As they took off, John guarded his highly sensitive ears. It was painful to fly, and he could only grit his teeth and bear it. 

When they were finally at altitude, John's colour had faded pale, but he was alright albeit stressed. He glanced over at Sherlock and asked the question that had been heavy on his mind. "What are the odds of Mycroft having us arrested upon landing?"

"Mycroft? Two percent at most. Negligible. The Crown? Seventeen, maybe." Sherlock looked out the window before turning his attention back to John. "After Moran, what are we going to do, John?" He pressed his head to John's, seeking comfort in closeness. There was a high probability one or both of them would die before this was over.

"They want the whole local network down. Sounds to me as though Moran has a bunch of lowlifes on payroll, just enough to keep a thorn in the side of the agencies trying to sort the actual terror cell, which basically makes Moran a splinter. We kill him, and then we kill his lackeys, and if we are still standing at the end… I've no idea. They'll likely put us down themselves or try to jail us." 

Sherlock pulled John in for a kiss, rubbing his face along his jaw. "We are not bloody well dying. If we have to run off to Rio to live... we will. I will not lose you, not after all of this."

John leaned into Sherlock, nodding. "Alright," he said very quietly as he trailed his fingers over Sherlock's arm. What more was there to say? This had all the makings of a suicide mission, which was why John wanted Sherlock to stay behind. 

Sherlock closed his eyes. _I will not lose John Watson_. He kissed John's temple as he wrapped a hand around John's thigh. "I won't. I will not." The words were whispered fiercely against John's hairline as they sat together. He fell silent again, preparing himself for what was to come.

John rested against Sherlock and allowed his mind to blank out. He was past his limit, pushed to the crushing point. All he had in the world to lose was Sherlock, and it seemed that no matter what, Sherlock would follow him. He put his mind to Sebastian Moran as a calm, detached peace settled over him. He didn't care at all if he personally was killed, just so long as Moran went down with him, he'd go quietly. Mycroft should have kept custody of his brother, but it was too late now. 

Sherlock and John stayed pressed against one another, both lost in their own thoughts until the plane began its descent into England. The pilot called back, "Be on the ground shortly. There's a man waiting with a vehicle. Take it and go. Packet of material in the vehicle tells you everything we have currently. Good luck, gentlemen."

John slid his hands up over his ears again, breathing carefully as they descended. He was dizzy as the plane made touchdown, though had himself collected when they finally rolled to a stop. Before the doors opened, John reached over and grabbed Sherlock, pulling him into a fierce embrace, pressing their lips together before drawing back. 

When he pulled away, he had his armour on, distant and immediately shuttered off. "Let's go."

Sherlock withdrew emotionally, tucking everything away as he slipped out of the plane without effort.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Violence abounds... Sherlock and John meet up with Sebastian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains art that is NSFW. Again, this chapter contains artwork embedded in it that is NSFW.
> 
> As always, thanks to [Vilestrumpet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vilestrumpet) for her beta and Britpicking and to [beltainefaerie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie) for her beta. They are amazing.
> 
> The art in this chapter is done by none other than Archia over on tumblr at <http://archiaart.tumblr.com/>

The Land Rover nearby had a slender, curly haired man standing by it. He held a packet out toward them, which Sherlock took, looking up to John as he inspected the contents. "Are you driving or am I?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John answered by getting into the passenger's seat, allowing Sherlock the wheel. Sherlock looked back to the man by the car. “Funny they should send you. Don’t you have your own to take care of?”

A smirk tugged up the corner of his mouth and he inclined his head. “We’re gearing up now. He’ll be on the ground the same time you are.”

“Bit odd, him working in London.” Sherlock arched a brow.

“Well, they blew London up. James goes where he is needed.”

Sherlock smiled at that. “James, now? Interesting and _very_ telling, Q. Do tell him I said thank you for hauling me out of China...”

“Yes, well. I helped with that, you know… Be careful, Sherlock. Moran is unhinged.” Q nodded to the car. “Everything’s ready.”

With a sharp nod, Sherlock slid into the vehicle, turning to see what John wanted to do.

"We should go to Baker Street," John murmured as he drew out the box of firearms and a packet of information. "I want to see if… they'll have eyes on, but it's doubtful he'll have a sniper on it. Maybe we can get lucky, lure him in with our presence, and I'll just put one in his face." 

Sherlock listened as he got in, starting the engine. "Baker Street it is... I'm not sure what the condition will be. We should be careful." The vehicle rolled, carrying them toward London proper.

John leafed through the information in the packet once he'd armed himself. It wasn’t _his_ Browning, but would have to do. There were at least five 8x10 glossies of suspected hit men, all affixed to their files. Two ex-military, the others professional criminals. "Six in total, it seems," he said as he fanned through them, "and I don't care if Baker Street is a pile of rubble, we will climb to the top and wait. He'll come, this has all been too fun for him. He'll come."

Sherlock watched the road as he spoke, "Then we go and we wait." He spared a glance at John before pushing on, "Where do you want me when we get there? This is your operation. What you say goes."

John set aside the packet of information and began to put Sherlock's weapon together, another Browning, loading it with a round in the chamber. "Within arm's reach whenever possible, preferably. We are playing sitting ducks, not much strategy in it. If you see him, take the shot, don't hesitate. I don't care what else is happening, just fire the shot." 

"Will do." _Sir_ very near passed Sherlock's lips on the end of that. The John in the seat beside him was not friend, lover, doctor, or blogger. Sherlock wasn't even entirely sure he was _Captain_ John Watson at the moment. A thrill rushed through Sherlock and he stepped on the gas, mind growing darker the farther they moved into London. His posture changed the closer they drew to Baker Street and soon Sherlock was the man he'd been in Rio, in India, in Serbia before they broke him down…

As soon as they pulled onto Baker Street, both their mobiles began to chime. 

John thumbed the screen of his phone and looked down, sucking in a sharp, audible breath as his face darkened into something hard and stony. There was no sound with the video that had been captured from the scope of a sniper rifle. John watched from a bird's eye perspective as he leaned in and kissed his wife, looking up and smiling at the approaching Sherlock. 

"He's a fucking dead man," John growled in Pashto, killing the screen before Moran took the shot. When Sherlock parked the car, John was out the door in the next second, bellowing down the busy street. "HERE WE ARE YOU BLOODY TOSSER, COME GET IT!" 

221 was roped off along with Speedy’s, though the door looked to be fine, and the front structure intact. John made no effort to hide his weapon as the middle finger of his free hand soared into the air. He dropped it a moment later as passersby began to stare, and he fired into Baker Street’s front to scatter the people. 

Sherlock's jaw was set, "Do try not to get us arrested before we shoot him." His hand was on the Browning in his pocket as he ducked the tape and moved to the front door. His keys were still in his pocket, but the door was unlocked. Sherlock drew the pistol as he edged the door open, body language changing to that of a trained and skilled soldier.

He cleared C first before moving into Mrs. Hudson's. Methodically, Sherlock moved through, clearing everything until he was back at the bottom of the stairs looking up toward B.

John had pitched caution to the wind, storming up, weapon drawn at his side. His hands were shaking as blind rage got the best of him, heedless of what he might find upstairs. He was standing in the sitting room, staring at the destruction. Their chairs were still intact, though toppled, the fireplace gone, the kitchen in ruins. 

"He's not damn well here yet," John seethed, going to the blown-out windows and looking down at the now empty street. "Scattered the civilians. Don't want a body count above six."

"If we wrack up a civilian body count, they will kill us." Sherlock answered as he topped the stairs and moved across the room. He looked over John's shoulder, speaking softly, "He'll come. He obviously knows we're here. Oh, and I had mould cultures just started too." He clicked his tongue before heading toward the bedroom.

John moved over to where his chair had toppled and picked it up, setting it right and dragging it to the centre of the sitting room. He settled down there, Browning on the armrest, views of the windows and the door. His mobile again chimed, this time with an image of Sherlock with his head bashed in, bleeding over the pavement in front of Bart's. 

Sherlock, however, was gifted with a fresh set of images he'd never seen before. His mobile chimed with a slideshow of John, in different locations, in different stages of grooming and grief, all in the crosshairs. One of John being tackled by Greg at the granite headstone, Browning to his temple, empty bottle at his side. One with John staggering out of a Tesco, sitting down at the nearest bench with his face in his hands. One of John standing in the window at Baker Street, tucking away Sherlock's violin with glistening cheeks. At the end of them all was a video of John getting his arse handed to him the night he met Mary, pounded into the pavement by a mob that had been mocking Sherlock loudly in the pub. 

_I could just shoot him now, make it easier on you? SM_

Sherlock stared down at the phone and smiled something feral.

_Or you could come in and talk to us. SH_

He hummed as he moved back to the sitting room. "I believe our friend has eyes on us."

John had been staring at the red dot sitting centre mass on his chest for a full two minutes. "I'd say so," he said calmly, absently putting his hand in front of the laser and watching the tiny dots dance along his fingertips, playing with the light. Let him pull the trigger. It didn't fucking matter. 

"Ah." Sherlock moved in front of John without hesitation, typing on his phone as he did. 

_Not very sporting of you, is it? SH_

He looked in the direction the laser was coming from and tilted his head. 

John stood up as well, focusing on the window as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's hips, breathing in the scent of him as he rest his cheek between Sherlock's shoulder blades. "I love you," he whispered in a butchered attempt at the French Sherlock had given him earlier. 

"Oh my fucking god, I'm going to be diabetic if you idiots don't cut that shit out." 

John went very still as the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed against the base of his skull. He splayed his hand over Sherlock's abdomen, thumb tracing there as the clock stopped and everything slowed. He could feel Sherlock's heart beating through his Belstaff, the lines of his muscles and the soft scratch of the material at his cheek. He tightened his arms for just a moment before he was collared and dragged backwards, his knees taken out from under him, barrel pressed to his forehead. 

"Hallo, Sherlock," Moran greeted with a predatory smile, "really should clear the highest levels before fussing about mould." 

Sherlock smiled as he turned to face Moran. "Hello. _'Bas_ tian. I'd finally gotten a particularly nasty strain of black mould started. Jim would have found it elegant. How've you been? Good? Looking well... I have to say though, the quality of drug you've been taking is a bit on the low side. I still have contacts, get you something higher grade, much better at making you forget..." 

He tilted his head, Pashto on his lips. "Too much to ask that you don't speak Pashto, isn't it?"

Bitter fury tore through Moran at Sherlock's use of Jim's pet name for him. He pressed the barrel harder against John's head until he had him flinching and pulling away.

"Not my favorite language, Sherlock. Now say goodbye to John so that you and I can get down to it."

He dropped the hammer back, eyes locked to Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled as he struck out with a booted foot, knocking the gun away from John's head. He followed through his body movement with a fist to Sebastian's jaw. He was yelling as he tried to tackle Sebastian despite his four inch height advantage. "You don't fucking _touch_ him again."

John fell back as the weapon tore roughly across his temple, snaring his hair around the barrel.

Moran staggered back with a hearty laugh, catching Sherlock at the back of his neck as Sherlock threw his weight into him. He pushed Sherlock down to all fours, pressing the barrel with John's hair fizzled up from it to Sherlock's neck as a shot rang off at his back, glass shattering, followed by the heavy sound of John hitting the floor.

Sherlock screamed for John from his position on the floor. _Too emotional, Sherlock_. "John! Damn it. John!" His pistol was back in his pocket if he could just bloody well get to it.

"Let's go," Moran growled, dragging Sherlock up by his neck. When Sherlock struggled Sebastian kneed him in the underbelly, dropping Sherlock hard, flat to the floor. "Or we can just do this here if you'd rather," he sneered, putting a knee to the centre of Sherlock's back, "you owe me more than you can pay," Moran purred, dropping his voice lewd.

Sherlock had to put his focus to putting Moran _down_. "Well, the bed's more comfortable and there _are_ handcuffs in the bedroom." The words wheezed out as he tried to recover from the knee to his stomach. 

Moran fisted a hand in Sherlock's hair and wrenched his head back, grinding his knee down. "Did John fuck you there yet?"

He pocketed his weapon and reached into Sherlock's pocket, dragging out the Browning and tossing it to the side. "Go on then, Sherlock, nothing left to lose now, give us a fight."

Sherlock groaned, "Jim liked it rough then? Should have known. Maybe I should have just brought him home with me... You bored him to death." His hand came up, fingers combing Sebastian's out of his hair before he landed an elbow harshly to the inside of one knee.

Moran roared at him, collapsing his weight down to his injured knee, driving a hard fist to Sherlock's side as he rolled them, one hand in Sherlock's shirt tearing at the material, sending buttons scattering.

Sherlock had suffered worse at the hands of Borovic and powered through to launch himself for the Browning Moran had pulled from his coat. _Slow down, think. It's right there, get to it, roll up behind John's chair and_ put him down, _Sherlock._

Moran caught Sherlock at the ankle as another shot cracked through the window, just shy of Sherlock's hand. "Mine," Sebastian bellowed, dragging Sherlock back towards him. He grabbed Sherlock around the throat as he lunged using the momentum to flip Sherlock to his back. Sebastian straddled Sherlock as he cut his air off. "Mine, you are mine," he snarled, grinding down on him, pinpointed pupils locked to Sherlock's, boiling with the want of revenge.

Sherlock didn't struggle. Not yet, there was time for that later. He slammed both thumbs into the pressure points on the inside of Moran's thighs, digging in hard as he fought away panic and stared up at him.

Moran grinned at him even as he buckled, simply dropping more of his weight down on Sherlock, keeping a hand at his throat, grabbing one of Sherlock's wrists and bruising the delicate skin instantly with his grip.

"I love this when I'm high, fucking adore it. I can last hours. You're going to black out, and when you wake up I'm going to show you why Jim always came back to me. When we are done with that, we are going to toss John's body in the Thames and go home."

Sherlock drove a knee up hard, attempting to dislodge Moran. Panic was creeping in from lack of oxygen. His free hand scrabbled for Moran's groin at the same time, desperately seeking to get Moran off of him.

Moran laughed, grinding against Sherlock's hand even as he saw stars from the blow. "You want it, don't you? Watson never cut it for you," he purred, squeezing Sherlock's throat tighter.

In the next moment, he was pitched sideways, crashing deafeningly into the wall where John broke his teeth with the grip of the pistol. Another shot rang out through the window and Moran's body jerked, a bullet punching through his back.

"Oh, I know that hurts," John growled, dropping the Browning in favor of digging his hand into Moran's bleeding flesh, making the spasming man scream until suddenly dropping quiet and limp.

Sherlock lay gasping in violent intakes of breath. He tried to get up, to scramble for John. The distance yawned even though it wasn't that far in reality. "Christ, John..." He wheezed out.

John was ignoring him, dragging Moran to his back and grabbing his feet, propping them up as he leaned in, covered in blood, and blew three decent breaths into Moran's lungs, shouting in victory as Moran gasped.  
"Get up, I'm going to kill Moriarty, open your eyes Moran. I'm going to kill Jim!"

With a great, agonized gasp Moran opened his eyes, choking on the blood in his mouth, twisting to spit teeth before shouting for Jim.

John stood up and sank his boot down to Moran's bleeding abdomen, savouring the way he screamed. "Jim is dead, he's already dead, you're alone and you're going to die screaming for someone, _anyone_ to save you.."

Moran was back under again, his breathing agonal, and again John dropped to revive him.

Sherlock crawled across the floor to John. He made no move to stop him. "Snipers? John? Snipers? Are you hurt?" He shook his head, trying to clear the ringing in his ears left over from the panic.

John did not answer Sherlock as he failed to revive Moran, screaming in frustration and starting compressions. He was trembling head to toe, his face bloody from where he'd sealed his lips over Moran's destroyed mouth.

Another shot ripped through the air beside Sherlock's head, shattering the wood of the end table beside him.

Sherlock swore and bodily yanked John down, screaming at him in Pashto. "MOVE YOUR ARSE, WATSON. HE'S GONE, SHE'S AVENGED. MOVE IT." His voice was hoarse as he pulled on John, scrambling for the hall.

John was _gone_. He tore away from Sherlock and shoved him hard to the stairwell while he went for the window, snatching up Moran's Sig and dropping his back to the wall. "DON'T," he warned Sherlock off, breathing swift and fast for three seconds before another shot whizzed by his covered location and he rolled off the wall, catching sight of the glinting laser, hands still and steady even as the rest of him shook horrifically. 

He exhaled and went still, cracking off three rapid shots before hitting his back to the wall again, eyes closed as he breathed slowly. He reached down to the desk and grabbed hold of Sherlock's deerstalker, lifting it up and dangling it across the window. 

Nothing. 

He waited, counting to thirty before edging his own body out, standing right in front of the window, looking down at his chest. 

Nothing. 

His knees gave and he hit the floor. 

Sherlock shoved himself across the floor to John. He was murmuring John's name over and over. "Talk to me. John, damn it, talk to me." Sherlock eased John over. "John, Christ, please." His eyes swept over him. "Come on."

John listed sideways on his knees, dazed, staring at the wall below the window. He was trembling terribly, reeking of the blood dripping down from his hair, unresponsive to Sherlock. 

"God damn it, John." Sherlock gripped John's shoulders. " _Watson_!" He gave up and hauled John up and over his shoulder, moving with him down the stairs and out to the Land Rover. He punched Mycroft's number on speaker.

Mycroft answered the line on the second ring. "Sherlock." 

"I need some place to go. Moran is dead, Baker Street. Likely another sniper across the way as well. John is- I need some place to go _right fucking now_ , Mycroft." There was no anger in his words. "He had me down- I need some place, Mycroft."

Typing could be heard on Mycroft's end and then Sherlock's mobile vibrated with a text. "Stocked flat, small and, ten minutes from you. Sherlock are you injured?" Mycroft was cool and concise, shocked that they'd already put Moran down. 

Sherlock was quiet as his brain supplied an injury list. _Throat likely bruised and swelling of some degree expected. Splinters in face likely from a bullet hitting the table. Not shot or stabbed. Bruising in other places from Moran also likely._ “I’ll be fine, Mycroft. Small tussle. Nothing to be concerned about.” He pulled up the text as he started the vehicle and started toward the stocked flat. "I take it you will handle the calls for clean up?"

Mycroft clicked his tongue. "Have John check you over, of course I will handle cleanup. I want an update on your condition within the hour. As ever, if you require anything else, ask. Be careful, brother." 

"Thank you, Mycroft. I'll report within the hour." Sherlock ended the call as he looked to John. "John?" He pressed the vehicle a little harder, skirting less travelled areas to get to the flat.

John was leaned against the window, smearing the glass, breathing overly fast and shallow. He wasn't focused on Sherlock, or anything really, his mind snapped off as his body panicked. 

Sherlock just drove after that. He pulled in at the back of the flats. A few minutes later found him with a pack from the back of the vehicle on one shoulder. He hauled John out of the car as easily as he could. A code box with a key in it hung on the door. He thought about yelling at Mycroft until he rolled his eyes and easily input a longstanding panic code. 

The door was kicked shut behind him and he headed straight for the shower. He turned the water on cool but not freezing and set John directly in the spray.

John dragged in a sharp breath, shocked back to himself in the chill of the water, red rivulets running down his face. He suddenly shouted again, anger and rage shaking loose as he tipped his face to the ceiling, grabbing the wall to keep from going to his knees. He raked his hand through his hair, pulling tight, tears sliding down his cheeks as he lost himself. 

Sherlock shed his clothes and turned the water warm before stepping in and drawing John to him. "I've got you."

John grabbed at Sherlock and pulled him forward, clutching at him and holding him tight to his chest. "I love you, oh my god did he hurt… I woke up and he… oh god are you okay?"

Sherlock rubbed his back. "Easy, breathe, John. I'm going to have some bruises... I need to check you over, what happened?"

John shook his head, his clothes heavy, and weighing him down. "I don't know I… I don't know I ducked the shot and hit..." he reached up with a quaking hand and touched his head, hissing at the large swelling there, "I guess I h-hit..." he drew back from Sherlock, suddenly focusing on him, "He was choking you, calling you _his_ and-" He tilted Sherlock's jaw up, smearing Sherlock's neck with blood from his hands, "oh g-god I… I couldn't s-stop he was going… I-" he grabbed at Sherlock's shoulders as his knees gave way, trying to catch himself. 

Sherlock kept John upright, balancing to change the water down to the tub. He was gentle as he eased John down. "Breathe for me. I'm going to get you undressed and both of us clean." John's clothes were stripped from him with easy, soothing movements and Sherlock plugged the tub to let it fill. It was a ridiculously tight fit and he had to hang halfway out to grab a few cloths, but soon they were both settled in the tub, John's back to Sherlock's chest. 

"I have you. He was going to-" Sherlock cleared his throat. "Said he'd show me why Jim kept going back to him and then he and I would dump you in the Thames and go home."

John nodded, grabbing a cloth from Sherlock and cleaning his mouth, disgusted with himself. "I know… I h-heard and then I kn-knocked h-his teeth out," his knuckles were still weeping from the struggle, the Browning having taken most of the hit, "I… he d-died too fast." John was shaking apart in the water as he turned his face to Sherlock's chest and breathed in deep, trembling breaths, dropping the cloth and trying to turn and bury closer to him. "I'm s-sorry it took me so long to get up, my head I-" 

Sherlock wrapped John up close to him. "I'm sorry- I'm sorry." He pressed kisses across the top of John's head, avoiding the injured area. "It's okay. We're okay. You saved me... You're still alive. I- When he threatened you, I snapped." With a foot, Sherlock reached out and turned off the taps when the water was deep enough for them to just rest in. 

John relaxed against Sherlock as much as he could. "I'm… I shouldn't have gone down. I...I need to breathe for a… I need to… to..." he trailed off, closing his eyes and sinking down against Sherlock's chest, nearly falling out entirely. 

"Easy. We are okay. We're going to finish getting clean, I'm going to tell Mycroft we're okay, then we are going to rest." Sherlock's voice was gentle, reassuring as they rested there. He was tender and careful as he finished cleaning the blood from John.

Once Sherlock had gotten them clean, John shifted so that he was on his knees, looking at him carefully. He picked up Sherlock's wrist, scowling at the bruises, pressing his lips over the large fingerprints. 

"I couldn't- he was going to- I wish I'd torn his throat out," he rumbled low and dangerous. He suddenly leaned down and kissed Sherlock, hand shaking on either side of his face. 

Sherlock wrapped his arm around John's waist and kissed him back with a low whine in his throat. He whispered against his lips, "I was terrified you were dead and I- John I couldn't make him stop. He was high." He nipped at John's lip. "I love you. Christ. Only you."

John kissed him possessively, holding tight to Sherlock, adrenaline giving way to the shock of still being alive. "I love you, you… never his, I'd kill him again if- that was not your fault, I love you," he was dragging Sherlock up into a kiss that swiftly grew frenzied, raking his fingers through Sherlock's hair and holding as tight to him as he could. He licked over the split at the edge of Sherlock’s lip.

Sherlock whimpered into the kiss, parting his lips for John as he wrapped his hands around John's hips, desperate to have John against him as much as possible, anchoring them together. He moaned at the feel, body bucking up against John's. His breathing was coming faster as he shifted to run one hand over John's back.

John sat back after a few minutes, keeping hold of Sherlock's wrist where Moran had terribly bruised it. He stood up slowly, grabbing a towel off the rack and dragging it over himself as he pulled Sherlock up, handing him one as well. "Clothes… I… I can't put those back on and your shirt-" 

There was a rhythmic knock at the door followed by a thump, and Sherlock's mobile vibrated, spiking adrenaline through John. The message blipped on screen. 

_From Baker Street. I still want that update, brother. MH_

"Oh… Jesus, he scared me," John breathed, moving naked as the day he was born to the hallway, pulling open the door and grabbing the bag dropped there, carrying it in a trembling hand back to the bathroom where they'd washed up. "Clothes." 

Sherlock hummed as he finished drying off and pressed a kiss to John's forehead. "I'll need to report back to my dear elder brother, lest he send an ambulance or some nonsense." He leaned against the counter, towel slung low over his hips as he texted Mycroft.

_Bruised and a bit shaken, but neither of us irrevocably harmed. SH_

John hissed as Sherlock leaned against the counter. The low sling of his towel exposed slow-forming bruises where Moran had used his knees to pin Sherlock down. John stepped forward, furious, sliding his admittedly much smaller hands over the marks Moran had dared to leave. He leaned over Sherlock before he had a chance to move his mobile, latching his lips over Sherlock's heart and drawing up a mark, swiftly laving over the skin there to soothe where he'd perhaps been a bit rough. 

Sherlock sucked in a breath, a low moan in his throat at John's possessiveness. "John..." the name was breathed out a his phone was deposited on the edge of the sink and he slid an arm around John's waist. His eyes searched John's body language and Sherlock relaxed with a smile, his voice soft, "Yours."

John drew Sherlock in closer, pushed forward by imagery of Moran atop of him, Sherlock wide-eyed with fear and his shirt hanging loose. He mouthed along Sherlock's collarbone, one hand wrapping around the back of Sherlock's neck, a gentler touch where Moran had been brutal. "I'm sorry," he whispered, bitter that he'd gone down and that Moran had been allowed to put his hands on Sherlock at all, "he's never going to touch you again, I- he'll never-" he shook his head, pulling Sherlock down to him and crashing their lips together, parting Sherlock's with his own again. 

Sherlock kissed John, hand splaying against his back. When they parted for a breath he murmured, "I know. You saved me." He kissed John again, pulling them close together once more. His hands rubbed John's back in tender, careful movements, desperate for the feel of his warm skin under his hands, pressed against him.

John groaned into Sherlock's mouth and began to pull at him, breaking contact save for a hand holding tight to Sherlock's wrist, pulling him along in search of a bedroom. The flat was tiny, and the next doorway he looked in was just that. He drew Sherlock into the room with him, pulling the towel from Sherlock's hips just before pushing him down on the bed. 

John followed swiftly, needing to be the last person that dropped his knees on either side of Sherlock's hips, crashing their mouths back together as he sank his fingers in Sherlock's hair. 

Sherlock moaned into the kiss as he wrapped his arms around John's waist. His hips shifted, getting comfortable under John. He kissed back, rough and needy as one hand slid up to the back of John's neck, fingers playing with the short hair at the nape of John's neck. Sherlock needed this, needed John's overwhelming presence reminding him he wasn't alone and that he was protected.

John was easy with his fingers in Sherlock's hair, keeping his touch just firm enough that Sherlock would feel it. He was uncoordinated and jittery, nerves on fire, overwhelmed with the relief that they had lived and the buzz from so brutally slaughtering Moran. He wrapped his trembling fingers around both Sherlock and himself, groaning into Sherlock's mouth, abruptly starting to work them together. 

A low moan escaped Sherlock as his hips bucked up and he gasped against John. His hand splayed on the small of John's back as he tangled the other in John's hair. There was no tug to the hair, Sherlock merely grounded himself with the hand in John’s hair. His name was moaned into the kiss as Sherlock’s fingertips pressed harder into John's back.

John dropped his head and rested against Sherlock's collarbone as he rocked his hips, driving himself harder against him, mind blissfully shut off as he moved in time with Sherlock. The heat of them in his fist was indescribably perfect, soothing the chaos somewhat. He pressed kisses to the bruises on Sherlock’s throat.

Sherlock clung to John as he rocked up against him, moaning. He tucked his head against John's as he mouthed along John's shoulder. It was perfection, all of it too good. He gasped John's name against his shoulder, a shiver rippling through him.

Together they moved, time falling off the clock without notice, John moving with Sherlock and Sherlock with John as they worked through the panic of the day. Bruises were kissed and soothed. Cuts tenderly brushed as their bodies rocked against one another.

The same possessiveness that had flared through John rippled through Sherlock as he bit down on John’s collarbone, sucking and drawing up a deep mark. He tucked his head against John’s growling against his ear. “Mine.”

John's release tore through him violently, bringing with it a broken shout, his hand stuttering over the both of them, though swiftly resuming his efforts with Sherlock. His eyes burned with the sting of tears, ears ringing, heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his back. 

The way John’s hand moved against him was gorgeous and it wasn’t long before Sherlock muffled his cry of release against John's shoulder, breathing coming in great gasps, body shuddering against John. His fingers dug into John's hip. A groan escaped him as the day crashed in around him and he found himself with tears rolling down his cheeks. Sherlock whispered apologies and thanks in one, murmuring something about catharsis and to stay with him.

John wrapped Sherlock in his arms and lay quietly for several long minutes, refusing to let his mind wander, simply breathing and waiting for his heart to calm down.

Nearly twenty minutes passed before the adrenaline flooded out of his body, leaving John raw and aching. He tucked closer to Sherlock, breathing in tight, clipped little gasps through a painfully swollen throat, struggling to keep himself from falling apart. 

Sherlock pressed his forehead to John's, hand trailing down his back, stroking and trying to soothe. He pulled the covers over them both as he kissed John's cheek. "Easy, slower breaths. I think there may be a cold pack. Want me to get it for your throat?"

John huffed a sound that was close to a laugh, shaking his head as he lost the fight to keep his cheeks dry, heavy tears tangling his lashes together as he struggled to breathe slower. "If-f anyone needs that, it's y-you," he managed, shoulders shaking, whispering softly again, "He's… I k-killed him too f-fast. It was too f-fast." 

Sherlock shook his head as he clung to John. "He deserved more pain, but I am thankful you got to him when you did." His voice was barely above a whisper as he kept them close, tucked together. 

He rubbed John’s back in continuous touches, still seeking to soothe him down. Soon enough John’s eyes were drifting closed. When Sherlock was certain John was asleep, he let himself drift off.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, our Betas and Brit-picker are life savers.

Mercy shone on them, for once, and John was able to rest quietly for the better of twelve hours. He woke slowly, aware of his surroundings. With a slow, deep inhalation, he opened his eyes in the late morning light. 

The weight of loss was surprisingly lighter. Decidedly still present, but not so severe. He reached up slowly and dragged his bruised knuckles over his eyes as a steady, less sharp measure of sadness blanketed over him. 

Sherlock looked up from the tiny kitchen table. "I've made tea." His voice was gentle, but rough as he rubbed the back of his neck. Ugly purple bruises were vivid against the pale of his neck. Sebastian's hands were outlined on either side. He added more honey to his own tea.

"Someone made sure there was fresh bread and your favourite jam, too. Mycroft's doing most likely," he rasped as he gathered a mug and poured John a cuppa without waiting for an answer.

John sat up, feeling his entire body protest. "You sound terrible," John said quietly, visually tracing the outlines of Moran's fingertips around Sherlock's throat. He dropped his legs over the side of the bed and stood slowly, stretching out his shoulder and watching gold lights dance along his vision for a few seconds. 

When Sherlock put the tea down, John reached up and put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, making him sit down. His fingers were gentle, a mere whisper of skin on skin as he examined Sherlock's neck, lips set in a tight line and the corners of his eyes pinched. 

"Bastard," he breathed, ducking to get a better look and using the point of his thumb under Sherlock's jaw to angle his head up a bit. "Spitting up any blood?"

Sherlock tilted back better for John as he shrugged. "Coughed a bit up earlier. Obviously some tiny tears in the throat from the struggle... but nothing I'm overly concerned about." He reached out wrapping his arm around John's waist as he was inspected. 

"I'll be alright, John. Relax. He's gone. He's dead and gone and we're okay... Well, relatively." He rubbed his thumb back and forth on John's back. Things had shifted the night before, even further than they had previously. Something between the two was finally settling.

The embrace around his back had John moving before thinking. He moved forward, suddenly in Sherlock's lap, knees snug on either side of Sherlock's hips. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and brought his chin to Sherlock's shoulder, eyes closed, their cheeks gently resting together. He was calm, his eyes were dry and his breathing steady, still and quiet in the clinging sadness. 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, holding him close. He leaned his head into John's as his eyes dropped closed. A soft hum of momentary contentment bubbled up. Sherlock's thumbs both stroked over John where his hands rested. He didn't speak, content to soak up the embrace and the quiet that had settled over them.

John rested there for a long while, eventually moving one hand so that he could easily hold the back of Sherlock's neck, thumb stroking at the base of his curls. Despite the childlike position he was in, John had not been so content in years. Eventually he tipped his face against the side of Sherlock's throat, breathing slow and steady as he simply relaxed in the calm presence that Sherlock was providing. 

The only noise Sherlock made was a small hum, until he winced. He'd meant to hum music for John, but found his throat was too sore for it. He pressed a soft kiss to John's collar bone. After another few minutes, Sherlock kissed John's cheek before speaking softly. "What do you want to do?" The rest of the cell would probably fall apart without Moran, but Sherlock couldn't be sure.

John inhaled slowly, filling his lungs and concentrating on the expansion of his own chest against Sherlock's. What did he want to do? 

"I want to go home," he whispered in response, shifting slightly to better settle in Sherlock's lap, clearly not interested in moving any time soon. They couldn't go home. Home was in shambles and John had killed, revived, and killed Moran again on the floor of their sitting room. 

It didn't change the fact that he was still homesick and weary, just wanting quiet and rest. 

"Will we be allowed to stop?" 

Mycroft had sent them not on their own vigilante work, but an official assignment. They'd taken down the head of the beast, but the body still remained. John knew he should care, but the wrath was gone out of him, leaving him without the energy or endurance for more. 

Sherlock hummed softly. "I can speak with Mycroft, see if the rest of the team can be folded into whatever cleanup is going on." He was exhausted himself. He really only wanted to rebuild Baker Street and go home.

"We can see about having Baker Street rebuilt, go back to France for a while. Recover." He winced again, holding a hand to his throat. "Let me contact Mycroft and see what he can handle or have handled." He kissed John's temple again and pulled his phone off the table.

_Not sure we can handle the rest of the team. Reached our limits. Throat is bad, John is- we just want to rest and recover. SH_

John nodded before gently sliding off Sherlock's lap, his body demanding attention. He disappeared into the bathroom as Sherlock's mobile buzzed with a reply from Mycroft. 

_John is what, Sherlock? Three of the six were apprehended this morning. Obviously there was no plan in place for Moran's fall, seems pride ruled his head unlike his predecessor. M_

_John is done. I can take out the other three if needed... but John is done. He needs rest and relaxation. SH_

Sherlock sipped his tea as he looked around the tiny studio flat.

_When can we start renovations on Baker Street?SH_

Mycroft's reply was nearly instantaneous. 

_You will not, under any circumstances, go after anyone alone. M_

A few minutes after that, a follow-up reply came. 

_London is yet to be made safe. Renovations to Baker Street will have to wait while National Security is compromised, brother. If you both are unable to continue, then return to France. I will handle the rest, Moran was the main concern. M_

_I'll let John know. We'll be there this evening most likely. S_

"John," Sherlock called out and swore. "Can go back to France. Three of them arrested already." He sipped more of his tea, desperate to soothe his throat. 

John came out of the bathroom and walked over to Sherlock, brushing his palm over the back of his head. "Have you taken a painkiller for that yet," he asked quietly, not addressing yet what had been said of a return to France.

Sherlock shook his head. "Wanted to be awake and coherent when you woke." He answered at a whisper. The touch had him closing his eyes and he leaned back into the hand.

John shook his head and went to the little bag of supplies, tipping out a few pills and bringing them back to Sherlock. He said nothing as he settled down beside him, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, fingers tented to his lips. He was quiet for a long stretch of time, eyes going unfocused as he allowed himself to think. 

"I don't want to go to France," he said very quietly, still staring off at nothing. 

The statement caught Sherlock by surprise. "England is not yet safe. Where would you have us go if you do not want to go back to France? You seemed- when we left you seemed..." There was no challenge or snark to the question. It was open, honest. "We cannot begin to rebuild Baker Street until England is safe again.

He popped a cold pack to his throat, eager to ease some of the pain while he waited on the pills. His throat throbbed and felt even more swollen than it had.

John remained quiet, staring off as he waited to answer. He slid his foot forward, resting it against Sherlock's as he sat in an odd sort of disconnection. When he spoke, nearly half an hour had passed without his notice. 

"Everyone is there," he said quietly, still not focusing on much of anything. "I don't want to go back because everyone else is there. It isn’t the place, it is the people. I don’t-." John shook his head.

Sherlock merely sat, watching John as he sipped his cold tea. "Then we won't go back there. Mycroft has rooms outside in Paris. Not quite Baker Street, but another large city, rooms of our own. I speak the language and it’s got a good many English speakers." He watched for reactions to this information.

John nodded against his fingers. "Okay," he said quietly, not going into it any deeper than that. He looked over to Sherlock at last, blinking as he focused. "If you want to go back, I don't want to stop you."

"I want to be wherever you are, hang the rest." Sherlock's tone was firm. "I don't care where we go. I just want to be safe and with you. That's all that matters. Alright?"

John looked over Sherlock and slowly nodded. "Alright," he replied softly, touching his throat as he looked at Sherlock's. "Pills helping?" 

He was floating in an odd space of nothing, as though he'd bundled himself up mentally and was floating above his own head, watching as a third party. He was both with Sherlock, and very far away. 

Sherlock nodded as he looked at John. "Better than it was," he answered. "How are you feeling?" He was concerned about how John was acting. Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. "Can I get you anything?"

John hummed as he ran a hand over his hair, ruffling it. "An airline ticket. Where should we go?" John was not typically a runner, preferring to stay where the trouble was and handle it personally. At present, though, he simply wanted away. With Sherlock, preferably, but away above all things. 

He reached out and delicately brushed his fingers over Sherlock's throat, eyes slowly unfocusing again. "You told me to stop, that she was avenged," he said a bit absently, as though considering his own thoughts and not particularly addressing Sherlock, "said it as though I wasn't turning his face inside out on your behalf as well." 

John had been in nothing short of a red-blanketed, nearly blind _rage_ at waking to discover what Moran was daring to attempt. There were not enough ways to kill the man for all his wrongs, but it had been a bit… odd… to hear Sherlock speak as though his own handling was not at least half the motivation behind John's sudden streak of brutality. 

Sherlock blinked in shock and opened his mouth to speak before shutting it again. It took a few more minutes before he spoke softly,"It had not occurred to me that you were beating Moran for me, too. That's not why we'd been there." His brow furrowed as he thought about it. He leaned into the touches as he looked up at John. 

"You always protect me."

John let his hand fall away after a few seconds, shaking his head. "No, I didn't," he said without any sort of emotional inflection. He tapped his own throat to make the point. "Day late, dollar short as the Americans like to say. As ever." 

He stood up and took Sherlock's cold mug of tea away, dumping it out and refilling it with another steaming pour, adding lemon and honey to help with Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock watched John and let out a soft sound of distress, "Stop... please, stop." He shook his head. "Don't say things like that. I'm alive many times over because of you." There was a pause before Sherlock continued. "John, please tell me what I can do to help you."

John brought the tea back to Sherlock and sat down, looking at him in confusion. "I… what? I went down and you were hurt. I didn't protect you. I didn't protect her. Hell, I didn't protect you _from_ her. I-" he drew in a slow, deep breath and shook his head, "It's just a truth, it's not anything I need help with." 

The tea sat untouched as Sherlock stared at John. "John..." he shook his head. "None of this is your fault, not one bit of it. You are not responsible for any of this. Please see that."

John nudged the tea closer, hating how painful Sherlock's throat looked, how rough he sounded. "This will help, I'll set an alarm to give you more for pain in a few hours. Where should we go?" He sidestepped the conversation, not wanting to get into it. 

Sherlock gathered the tea to him and sipped at it slowly. "Nowhere with a Slavic language." He thought about it for a few minutes. "Canada. It's primarily English speaking but my French can get us by where it's not. The climate isn't something that will roast us, though drinking on a beach in the Caribbean might relax us."

John hummed and then looked down at his hands, nodding. "Canada. I don't want the glaring sun. Canada is good." He looked up at the ceiling then before shaking his head, "Maybe not though, long flight and you are going to start hurting. Maybe somewhere closer? Scotland?" Still he spoke in a slow, detached manner, distanced without intending to be. 

Sherlock reached out and tugged John close to him. "We can go to Scotland. I'll text Mycroft, what do you think? Maybe find a cabin on a loch and relax, take our time, heal..."

John was docile in Sherlock's grip, allowing Sherlock to move him as he wanted. "That's...yeah that...we can do that. That would be… fantastic. I'd..." he stopped talking and hummed as something painful twisted in his chest. He dropped his gaze down to the floor and nodded again, "would it be terrible of me to lie down for a few minutes? I'm not feeling very well." 

Sherlock shook his head as he answered, "Not horrible at all." He released John and reached for his phone again. John's detachment was both worrying and to be expected.

_M, cabin in Scotland? Somewhere quiet. We need a break. S_

John needed a break, but Sherlock wanted John happy, no matter what it took to nudge him more toward that.

John got up and moved over to the bed, fully dressed save for his shoes, still getting under the blankets and pulling them up over his ear, closing his eyes and letting himself sink into the bed. 

Moran was dead. 

What more was there for him to do now, other than _live_? The very idea felt obscene. His wife was dead along with his daughter, his home in ruins, London under attack, and Sherlock planning a cabin. 

What else was there for Sherlock to do though? Were their positions flipped, he'd likely be doing his best to get Sherlock as far from this as he could. 

Grief was settled, cold and heavy, just over his heart as always. He felt it there, waiting for his attention, even mentally poked at it as a boy with a stick might agitate a wasp's nest. There was only silence, though. He could feel the want for tears as one would watch rain from behind glass, able to sense the weather without experiencing it fully. All there was for him in that moment was a calm sort of acceptance with no emotion attached to it on a visceral level. He could identify 'sad,' and 'frightened,' 'depressed,' and 'lost,' but there was no sharp sting or burn of tears, no change in his pulse, no gooseflesh on his skin. He just was, and that had to be enough. 

He heard Sherlock's mobile chime with a response. 

_I don't want to see you back for at least a month, allow the situation to settle, minds to wander to problems that do not involve your names. The flight information is attached, private jet, arranged driver. Show up for the flight and allow my people to handle the rest. How are your injuries? M_

_Thank you. I'll message when we're there, safely ensconced. We'll be okay. My throat is very sore, but I will certainly survive it. S_

"When you're ready, John. We have a private flight to catch. No rush, you are more than welcome to rest a while longer." Sherlock tried to keep his voice neutral. He stood and gathered a few things before disappearing to check on the outside of his throat.

_Can you have a scarf waiting on me? This looks ridiculous. S_

He attached a picture of his throat to emphasize how horrible he looked.

Mycroft's reply was nearly instantaneous. 

_How was this allowed to happen? That is much worse than you led me to believe. M_

It was the most veiled version of 'Where was John,' that Mycroft was capable of summoning up in his moment of rage. 

Sherlock scowled at his phone. 

_John dodged a sniper's bullet and knocked himself out in the process. I'd rather look like this and have him alive than the alternative. He killed Moran over it. S_

Mycroft was delayed in his reply. 

_This is not what I intended. I need your assurances that you will not allow John's, shall we say, distraction to further endanger your life. M_

Sherlock stared at his phone. It took several times for him to type something. Eventually he responded, jaw jumping as he did.

_Cancel the flight, thank you, we'll figure something out on our own. S_

Half a minute later, Sherlock's mobile was vibrating with a call, Mycroft's number across the screen. 

Sherlock pressed the ignore button, silently fuming as he stared down at it. He was still locked in the bathroom and he turned on the shower, determined to actually bathe himself. All the while daring Mycroft to call back.

Call back he did, hanging up and immediately ringing back. 

"What do you want?" Sherlock snarled into the phone.

Mycroft closed his eyes and took a slow breath. "For you and John to board the designated flight and park yourselves somewhere _safe_."

"Oh, but can I be safe?" Sherlock's tone was cutting, obviously upset by what Mycroft had said.

Mycroft did not match Sherlock's cutting tone, speaking to calm him down. 

"Sherlock, he is compromised and you cannot fault me my concern for your safety. Moran had you down far longer than a short moment. Likely eight minutes. The idea that my brother was in such a position at all, let alone for how long, is troubling in the extreme."

Sherlock was silent for a full minute. "He wanted me to replace Jim..." The confession was soft, scratchy. "I thought John was dead. I thought- I thought he was going to take me."

Mycroft's reaction was borne of outburst, emotion temporarily overriding his filters. 

"Come back to France. Sherlock, come home where I can keep you safe." Rage and flashing panic had made Mycroft instantly aware of the distance, feeling each kilometre between him and his baby brother. 

Sherlock made a pained sound. "John doesn't want to, he's- I don't know, Mycroft. I don't know he said 'everyone's there'."

Mycroft closed his eyes and sat down, raking a hand through his hair as he leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee. His voice was very quiet as he spoke again. 

"Are you concealing any injuries from me, 'Lock?" He pulled Sherlock's childhood name to allow his brother to know the genuine, familial concern. 

Sherlock looked down at himself. "Beat up- a bit. He had me down hard." He let out a sigh. "I- I want to come back, but John needs to heal, My. John needs so much."

Mycroft shook his head. "Come home, put him on a plane and come home. I'll have everyone leave off talking to him until he is ready. Sherlock come home. I know he needs things, that does not negate your needs."

Sherlock turned off the shower. "Alright, okay. I'll- I'll let you know in a few minutes." The uncertainty bled into Sherlock's voice. "My, I want to come home."

Mycroft grit his teeth, tempted to arrange some drastic and unnecessary mode of transportation to get Sherlock to him in the next hour.

"Come home. The jet will bring you home. John will understand or I will make him understand. I spent many hours with him this last year, it will not be a problem."

In French, he spoke softly, "You are alright, 'Lock. I will see you in a few hours."

Sherlock's French was quiet. "I will see you at home, My."

He hung up before anything else could be said and stepped back out. "I know it's not your home, but France is the closest I have to Baker Street. Please..." Sherlock's voice cracked on 'please'.

John had been dozing when Sherlock came out of the bathroom. He opened his eyes and sat up swiftly as Sherlock's voice broke, looking over him in concern. "You want to go to your brother," he said after a moment, nodding slowly. He dragged his fingers through his hair, rumpling it, his chest tight as he stood up and walked over to Sherlock. John moved as though not quite connected to his body, reaching out slowly and wrapping his arms around the man. 

"Go home," he whispered softly, cheek pressed to Sherlock's chest, "I understand, you need to go home." 

Sherlock wrapped up around John. "I want you to come with me. We can- no one will bother you, the house is huge. John, John please I can't- please." He buried his face down in John's hair. "I'll do whatever you need." Sherlock was as close to cracking apart as he'd come. The past six months were coming crashing down on his head

John held on to Sherlock without speaking for several minutes, just breathing, keeping him close. He was incredibly torn, wanting to stay with Sherlock, though more so not wanting to expose himself to the judgement of the house in France. Mycroft would be unhappy about something, or Molly would want to talk, or Greg would be angry that he'd not done this or that. Sherlock was pleading, which made this all terribly difficult. 

"Why don't I...let you know where I end up. When you are ready, you can come too?" His voice was soft and detached, drifting above them quietly. "I...I can take you to the airport and...call you when I figure it out." 

Sherlock did not speak, but his body shook as he started crying. He didn't make any noise other than breathing harder. Tears rolled off his cheeks, falling into John's hair. He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't and snapped his mouth shut again. His breathing hitched as he clung to John, not lessening his grip.

As Sherlock's breathing hitched, John bit his lip and closed his eyes. Damn it. He inhaled slow and deep as his mind strolled through the problem as an observer. 

_Your wife shot him. She's dead, but it doesn't change what he did for you. He's crying. Can you leave him? Sherlock Holmes is crying, John. He just wants you to go to France with him. You've dealt with the lot of them before._

_I don't want to deal with them now._

_Well, then tell him goodbye. He pretended to kill himself in front of you, you don't owe him shit._

_Get off it, that's a weak lie at best._

_Fuck._

"Okay," he breathed, deflating, "France." 

Sherlock did not let go, unable to. "I don't want you to be miserable." He finally said. "I can't- I can't be responsible for that. I can't." He was bordering on panic and all of it seeped through. Sherlock's knees buckled under him and he slid down in front of John, burying his face against his stomach, stretched to his limit.

"Sherlock," John cried, thinking Sherlock was blacking out on him and catching hold of him as best he could. When Sherlock managed to keep upright, simply burying against his stomach, John wrapped his hand around the back of Sherlock's head and rubbed gently at his scalp. "Let me get you home, and then we'll figure it out from there. You need home more than I need..." _whatever the hell I need_ , "you need home."

Sherlock's fingers wrapped around John's hips. "O-okay, alright. There's a- a plane. I have the information." His hand shook as he called it up on his phone and handed it over. "We- it was going to take us to Scotland and I r-ruined it."

John shook his head, taking the phone from Sherlock and looking at it. They needed to leave, and soon. "You didn't ruin anything. You've- what happened yesterday-" he cleared his throat and pocketed Sherlock's mobile, "that was horrible, and it's..it's okay to need home." That's the only place John had wanted to go. Home. Except there wasn't any place in the world with such a title for him, not anymore. 

_I want to go home_ had instantly and nearly chaotically become _I want to go_. 

But first, Sherlock needed his brother, needed something familiar and safe. So he'd get on a plane and be sure that Sherlock was with someone he loved, if he couldn't be with John. "It's okay to need home." 

"I need you! You _are my home_." Sherlock's voice was desperate, trying to get himself back under control as his breathing shook. "Please, just, wherever you want to go. You are my home."

"Come on," John said a bit strained as he bodily pulled Sherlock off the floor, "up, before you hurt yourself, come on. We will get on this plane together." He couldn't handle Sherlock falling apart on him, he absolutely could not handle it. He stood Sherlock up, wincing as the spike in his blood pressure made his head pound, and pushed him to sit on the bed. He took the next few minutes to gather up their things, tipping a few more pills into Sherlock's hand to help with his throat. 

Finally he had their things together, bag slung on his back, holding out his hand to Sherlock. "Come on."

John's hand wrapping around his was grounding and he took a deep breath. "My apologies." He stood and moved with John. Sherlock slipped out of the tiny flat with John and found a car waiting. "For God's sake... no telling how long that's been there." He huffed, sounding more like himself. The door was opened by a man who looked at Sherlock as his phone chimed.

_Mrs. Hudson is cooking stew. Your password is Thyme and Rosemary. M_

Sherlock looked at the man expectantly. He bowed his head to Sherlock. "Thyme and Rosemary, Sir."

John looked between the two of them, raised his eyebrows as he pursed his lips, and then shook his head and just got in the car, not particularly wanting to know. Sherlock and Mycroft were absurdly… _that_ , sometimes. All secrets and kidnapping, code and run around. It was fine, he simply wasn't in the mood for it. He waited for Sherlock to get in with him, glad they were not going to have to muck about with a cab. 

Sherlock slipped into the car and sighed softly. He rested his head back against the seat. His hand brushed John's in invitation. The car took off for the small airport. It didn't take a terribly long time to get there.

John took Sherlock's hand and held it for the duration of the ride. The shift to the plane was simple and mostly unremarkable. John didn't have much recall of it by the time the pilot was disengaging the 'Fasten Seatbelts' sign. He inhaled deeply, sitting in the plush leather, fist to his mouth, leaning on his elbow as he absently watched out the window. 

Sherlock licked over his bottom lip as he texted Mycroft.

_In the air. Things are tense. Please have everyone cleared out when we get back. I don't think John wants to know anyone else exists right now. S_

Mycroft's reply was a bit delayed. It wasn't for another half hour that the message came. 

_I have informed the house that John specifically would prefer his privacy and isolation at present. No one will seek him out. I've not said the same for you. M_

Sherlock smiled at his phone. The tension in his shoulders eased more the closer they got.

_Thank you. It is appreciated. I do not mind seeing anyone. S_

He looked over to John, watching him silently.

John remained seated as he was, staring out the window, his lips resting on his torn knuckles. His fists both throbbed and he was aware of each joint and area of swollen soft tissue. When cloud cover out of the window enabled him to catch his reflection, he could see the bruising where he'd caught his head, purple and angry black snaking out from his hairline to drip down the side of his face. They looked like hell, though Sherlock obviously the worse for it, his face much more colourful and his neck absolutely covered. 

"It will be a struggle not to hit your brother back," he said to the window, voice quiet and rough. 

Sherlock tilted his head for a moment before he made the connection and rolled his eyes. "Mycroft isn't going to strike you." The words were tired. Sherlock reached out, putting a hand on John's thigh. "No one is angry with you." At least if they were Sherlock was going to throttle them with his own two hands.

John hummed and went quiet once again, keeping his focus to the window. He did slide his foot forward so that he could rest their knees together. As the warmth began to leach through the fabric of his trousers, his eyes burned, but he continued keeping still. 

They sat there like that for a long time, Sherlock silent and staring. He rested his head back against the seat and turned his attention to the top of the plane. It wasn't until the pilot chimed at them to fasten their seat belts that Sherlock moved. He buckled it again and closed his eyes.

Landing and transferring to the waiting vehicle should have been an easy thing. They taxied and moved through the small airstrip, coming to a stop. John got up stiffly, the swelling from the day before much more pronounced, the change in cabin pressures doing nothing but exacerbating the issue. 

John grabbed their bags, moving to the door of the plane with his hand in Sherlock's, and kept his eyes down to the stairs as they exited the plane. It was not until a body brushed past his, nearly knocking him to the ground, that he bothered to look up at all. 

Mycroft had not intended to shoulder John so hard on his way to his brother, but seeing the condition Sherlock was in and the pained look on his face, he'd moved without thought, pulling Sherlock against him the moment Sherlock's feet were on the ground. 

Sherlock was shocked when Mycroft plowed past John and wrapped up around him. He hugged his brother, voice hoarse as he spoke. "Nearly knocked John down... I told him you weren't going to hit him." He leaned heavily against Mycroft though, sagging with relief that neither he nor John had to be completely in control anymore.

"I hurt, My. John hurts. We're both worn out." He didn't even realize he was babbling in French as he stood there. Sherlock was as close to coming apart as he'd ever been.

John stood back, quite unharmed, though a bit startled at Mycroft's display. It would seem that even the coldest of the Holmes had a melting point. When Sherlock sagged against his brother, John looked away, quietly walking over to the waiting SUV and loading in, arranging himself in the back as he had been on the plane, lips against his split knuckles, staring out the window. 

Mycroft wrapped a gentle hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, not particularly giving a damn about John just yet. His brother was falling apart, and that was all that mattered. "There is medicine and hot tea in the car, you can sleep on the way home, 'Lock. I've it all arranged, everything is alright," he whispered back, responding in French as well. 

"He's so fragile, I can't seem to help him." Murmured Sherlock, still in French as he straightened himself. He sighed and nodded. "We- yes, home, please home." Sherlock took a step back before moving toward the car. Everything seemed hazy and awful. He slid into the car and closed his eyes as he pressed himself close to John.

Mycroft had tea in both their hands, and pills down Sherlock, within ten minutes of loading into the car. John had wrapped an arm around Sherlock's shoulders, though he kept his focus outside, saying nothing but the quiet thanks for the drink. 

The drive was nearly silent, with Mycroft occasionally leaning forward to rest his hands on Sherlock's knee, doing what he could for his brother in the limited space of the car. Minutes before they arrived, he texted Molly. 

_Sherlock needs help. Please meet us at the car. I will take John up to his room, Sherlock needs to be socialized, not hidden away. M_

Molly met them at the car, though everyone else was out of sight for John's arrival. She didn't try to approach John or speak to him, respecting his wishes to be left alone.

Sherlock managed a tight smile to Molly and a glare at Mycroft. He was too raw and emotional to understand what was going on, turning his focus back to John.

Mycroft spoke very calmly as they unloaded from the vehicle. "John, I will help you up to your room. I'm sure a warm bath is in order," he said with a tight smile that did not meet his eyes. Given the state of John, and the condition Moran was described to be in, he thought it likely John may have fractured his fists. He'd ask Molly's help in attending him, later. 

John returned Mycroft's look, flicking his eyes to Molly and nodding. "Hi, Molly. Sherlock's throat needs to be properly looked at, bit of bleeding this morning." He looked back to Mycroft and nodded. "Right, yeah, bath. That would...help," he said, trying to keep Sherlock calm, squeezing his hand. 

Sherlock looked around at the three of them, eyes narrowing. For a moment it looked like he was going to react explosively before his voice turned cold. "I can attend to myself, thank you."

Molly looked like he'd struck her and reached out to touch his shoulder only to have him flinch away. "Sherlock..." 

He stiffened, "No, thank you. It's obvious the three of you are making all of my decisions for me. I'll just go and sit on the sofa until such a time as I'm told I can move somewhere else." Sherlock did squeeze John's hand back as he stood there.

This was precisely why John had chosen not to return to France, to see any of these people. 

Sherlock's reaction was infuriating. Here he stood, in his childhood home with a sibling who gave a damn and long-standing friends who bent over backwards for him, prickling and snapping at their audacity to try and help. 

John's jaw worked and he looked across the lawn, staring off at the distance. Sherlock was angry with him for… he physically shrugged, so lost in his thoughts. Who knew what the hell Sherlock was angry with him for. He gave a sharp nod and decided that a bath was in order before he figured out where to disappear to. He dug into his pocket and handed Sherlock's mobile back to him, having held it since London. 

"Alright," he said in that flat, neutral tone he'd adopted in the shock of it all, "you...do as you like, thought your throat could have used some help, but if you're going to take Molly's head off, I'm clearly mistaken. I'm going up." 

He adjusted his bag over his shoulder and simply walked away, overwhelmed past the point of caring.

Sherlock's jaw worked for a moment and he turned, walking away, heading for the tree line. "I knew we shouldn't have come back." He snapped as he tossed down the bag he'd been holding. "Fuck it." He swore as he kept walking. 

Molly blinked and looked torn. "I- I didn't mean to-"

"Do shut up, Molly." Sherlock said as he made his way away. "This has everything to do with no one stopping to _ask_ what I wanted or needed. Just assuming they know best for me." He slipped into the tree line, desperate to put space between himself and the anger, the assumptions, the coddling.

Molly looked at Mycroft, a frown on her face, concern tattooed over her entire body.

Mycroft rocked up on his toes for a moment, giving Molly a tight smile. "Well, that's gone swimmingly," he said before heading to the house, patting Molly on the shoulder and moving her with him, "My men will keep track of him, let him cool off." 

Molly sighed as she strolled with Mycroft back to the house. "I don't understand. He looks so tired and in need of company... and when we give it…” She trailed off for a moment before sighing. “They both look tired." 

Sherlock made his way to the old tree house. Despite the years, someone on the grounds-keeping team had kept it up and he climbed into it, finding the old army cot still in good repair. Sherlock curled up there and finally let himself crack completely, sobbing against the cot as his world came crashing down around his ears.

Several hours passed without word from Sherlock or John. Mycroft sat downstairs in the main sitting room, waiting for either of them to surface. John came down sometime later, looking drawn and detached. 

"He's not here," Mycroft said quietly, pointing to the door. "Hit the treeline and walk west for five minutes, he's there." 

John followed the instruction, finding Sherlock's treehouse with little issue, Sherlock having snapped a trail along the way. He could hear Sherlock's rattling breaths, snoring due to the swelling in his throat, and chose not to wake him. Instead, John settled at the base of the tree, resting his cheek on his knees, holding his wrists around his legs. 

Within twenty minutes, he was back off to sleep, tears drying on his face, listening to the woods around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost there...


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, our betas are wonderful, beautiful people.

When Sherlock woke, two hours later, he rolled off the cot and struggled to his feet, intending to find John. He found him at the base of the tree and Sherlock wrapped himself around him, burying his face against John’s neck. "I'm sorry," he breathed out. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, John."

John startled hard as he was suddenly touched. He exhaled slowly as he realized what was going on, closing his eyes again as Sherlock wrapped around him. His head pounded so hard it was making him stiff. He tipped it against Sherlock's, whispering, "I shouldn't have asked Molly for help without asking you." 

Sherlock let out a shaky sigh. "I shouldn't have snapped. We arrived and everyone seemed to know what was going on except me and all I wanted to do was go to bed and-" He shook his head against John's neck. "I'm sorry. You're cold. Let's get you back where it's warm."

He pulled back enough to look at John, searching his face. "I am sorry."

John hadn't realized that he was cold until Sherlock said as much and then leaned away, taking his heat with him. He stood up, worried over Sherlock's throat. "Here," he whispered as his head throbbed, reaching into his pocket and producing painkillers, "I didn't want to wake you." 

Sherlock’s smile was tired. "I'll take them as soon as we get back. Nothing to take them with here. Don't think I'm up to swallowing them dry." He stood and wrapped an arm around John. "Maybe a warm bath and a bit more sleep will do us some good?"

John hummed, shoving his hand back in his pocket, watching his feet crunch through the undergrowth as his thoughts swirled through his head. The only thing that was going to do him good was to get the fuck away from here, but that seemed unlikely. This was exactly what he'd wanted to avoid, nerves frayed and rubbed raw. He just wanted to be quiet and alone. He'd wanted Sherlock with him, but now he was doubting even that. 

Sherlock paused and looked at John, taking in his body language. His voice was soft. "What do you need from me, John?"

John stopped walking with Sherlock, keeping his eyes down. He shook his head, closing his eyes and breathing in deep. "I'm just tired," he breathed, the words pulling the burn of tears to his eyes, "I'm tired and I can't… I can't-" he waved his hand toward the house and then back to Sherlock, again staring at his shoes. "I never thought asking Molly for help- and Mycroft is angry, and Greg will be mad because we hurt Molly, and-" his voice cracked and he shook his head, shoving his hand back in his pocket. "I'm so tired." 

Sherlock took in a slow breath. "It wasn't-" He shook his head. "I'm sorry. I won't say anything else. I didn't mean to upset you." He put a hand on John's arm. "Truly. I am sorry." Sherlock started back toward the house. "We'll get you back to bed and something for pain. Whatever you want. Once you've had some more rest you can go wherever you want to. I'll accompany you if you want me to."

John raked a hand over his head, frustrated tears of defeat trailing down his cheeks quite suddenly. "This is why I didn't want to come back!" The words tore out of his throat, loud and nearly echoing, "You wanted these people and now you're angry with me for asking Molly for help! I didn't know Mycroft would be at the airport. I didn't know what the fucking plan was! You're angry with _me_ and I'm just trying to help you! If you were not here I'd have damn well _shot myself already_!" 

He drew in several swift, nearly panicked breaths, staring back at Sherlock with open defeat across his face. "I don't want to _be here_! I don't want to be _anywhere_." 

Sherlock took a step back. John might as well have struck him for how Sherlock looked. "I did not know Mycroft would be at the airport. I am sorry I am not enough to help you. I do not know what else to do. I do not know where else to go. I wanted a place I was familiar with and _you_. I told you multiple times we could go elsewhere. I do not know what else it is you require of me, John. I am trying." Defeat was in every line of Sherlock's body, in the flat of his tone.

"I don't want you dead. I've been struggling to keep you alive for over three years now..."

"Stop it!" John shouted, turning his focus to Sherlock directly, "Just fucking _stop it_!" 

His head swam, spots cracking along his vision. He simply sat himself down where he stood, unwilling to fall. "Don't stand there and tell me you're not _enough_ \- what the fuck more could I possibly do to show you that-" 

He clamped his jaw shut, raking his hands through his hair, resting his elbows on his knees. 

Sherlock held a hand to his throat as he searched for something to say. Finally he bowed his head. "I'm sorry I am stressing you further. Please, come back with me to the house. In the morning you and I will leave. I do not have the mental capacity to do it right now, but we will go and recover elsewhere, just the two of us."

John did not move, paralyzed where he sat, sure that anything he said… or didn't say, for that matter, was only going to make things worse. He'd been so sure that Sherlock needed Mycroft, only to watch as Sherlock fumed at them for daring to bring him home. 

"I thought you needed Mycroft too, I thought you needed Molly and-" John shook his head, tears sliding down his face, "I was trying to do what was best for you, I thought you needed home!" 

Sherlock knelt beside John, pressing his hands down on his knees. "John, I don't know what I need outside of you right now. I- This place has always comforted me. I want to check on Mycroft, to speak with him. I don't- I don't know. I can't be responsible for making you miserable. I snapped because very suddenly it was obvious they were separating us, which was the exact opposite of what I wanted to start with."

John reached out and grabbed hold of Sherlock, wrapping his arms around him so tight that it unseated him, making them topple to the forest floor. He had his hands in Sherlock's hair, kissing him with everything he had, panicked and crying, pain and exhaustion seeming to overwhelm him.

Sherlock clutched at John's shirt as he kissed back, desperate and clinging as he tried to press closer than possible, an absurd part of his mind quoting at him the further simplified and extrapolated version of the Pauli exclusion principle, 'two objects cannot occupy the same place at the same time, Sherlock.' in a voice that sounded annoyingly like Mycroft's. He renewed the kiss, trying to drive the thoughts away.

Twigs poked against his back and leaves crunched, matting in his overly long hair as John grappled for purchase, dragging his nails across Sherlock's back until he could curl his fingers in the fabric of Sherlock's coat. It was rough and panicked, making him arch up against Sherlock in an energy that had little to do with anything sexual and everything to do with need for contact, for peace from the constant hell they'd been in. 

Sherlock pressed down against John, seeking to soothe them both. He kissed him in desperation, needing the contact as much as John did. After a moment he drew back panting and nuzzled John's jaw before kissing him again, trying to slow it. He tried to take control of the situation for a moment, to bring them back from frantic.

John sobbed as Sherlock drew back, the sound choking out of him as Sherlock nuzzled his jaw. He settled somewhat as Sherlock kissed him again, falling in step with Sherlock's pacing. His heart beat frantically behind his ribs as he pulled at Sherlock, trying to get him closer. The temperature was dropping as the sun began to set, though John paid it little attention. 

Sherlock pressed close, whispering against his lips. "We need to go in, straight to the room. You can have me as close as you need me. John, we'll freeze out here."

John did not have time to answer, however, as the familiar sound of Mycroft clearing his throat interrupted them. He stood by, blankets in hand, looking to the side as he spoke. "Wise words from my brother, John.” He fell quiet again, waiting for the men to right themselves. 

Sherlock swore as he sat up. He was gentle in his movements to help John up. "Impeccable timing as always, Mycroft." Though the words should have been cutting, they lacked the tone to carry it off. He reached out and took a blanket from Mycroft, settling it around John's shoulders. Almost as an afterthought, Sherlock plucked a leaf from John’s hair.

John leaned against Sherlock, feeling sick at his stomach, holding the blanket around himself. He braced for whatever Mycroft was going to throw at him.

Mycroft looked at John, and then to Sherlock. "The second floor is yours, everyone is at dinner. You will find food in your room, and medicine in the bath." He spoke gently, knowing that if he were responsible for John’s departure, he would lose Sherlock as well. The livid hand prints on Sherlock's neck made the idea of separation from Sherlock intolerable just yet. 

Sherlock looked to Mycroft and his face softened. He spared him a rare, true smile, accompanied by a quiet, "Thank you." as he guided John back toward the house. He kept close, unwilling for distance to separate them again. 

By the time they got up the stairs, John was a shaking mess. He moved to the bed, stripping with trembling hands down to his pants and collapsed, narrowly landing on the bed.

Stripping down to nothing, Sherlock moved around the room. He slipped into the bath, taking medicine before retrieving some for John. When he wandered back to the bed, he pressed them to John’s hands. "Relief and sleep... and some huddling together under the covers if you'd like."

John took the pills and drank down the water. "You take… take something for your throat." John implored, voice quiet as he watched Sherlock move. He curled back down onto his side, waiting for Sherlock to join him, tremors chasing themselves across his skin. 

"I did. I promise, before I brought yours out." Sherlock crawled into bed beside John and wrapped up around him, pulling the covers over them both.

John turned to face Sherlock, wrapping his arms tight around him and hanging on for dear life. He was pulling at him, trying to get Sherlock over him, wanting to hide. "Please," he breathed, nearly choking on hopelessness. There was nothing more to focus on now, no revenge, no plans, just existing. He pulled at him again, pressing their lips together, desperately needing help. 

Sherlock kissed John firmly, much more in control of himself since he'd cried himself to sleep in the treehouse. He gentled the kiss, keeping a firm hold of John. "I have you," he whispered between kisses. "I have you."

John reached up and grabbed the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling him in tighter, wanting more. He bit at Sherlock's lower lip as he hooked his heel over the back of Sherlock's leg, drawing him in closer. "Sherlock," he breathed, bordering between tears and screaming, the extreme violence from the day before making him sick at his stomach. 

Sherlock nipped at John's lip. "Easy, easy. Anything you need." He kissed John again, harder, pressing close. His hand ran down John's side and wrapped at his hip, keeping a firm grip on him. "John..." His hand slid on around and splayed over John's lower back pulling him tightly against him

John reached up and grabbed at Sherlock's hair, rough as he pulled him in for another kiss. His breathing was a mess as he arched under Sherlock, tears constant in his face, doing his best to blot out the world in Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock kissed John again as he covered him. He kept them close, determined to keep John safe from the world. He whispered against him, "I've got you. I have you, John." The kisses continued as he let John guide them, let John show Sherlock what he needed.

John arched up against him, dragging his nails down Sherlock's back, hooking a heel behind Sherlock knee. He let loose a mixed sound of need and want, grief and desire, rolling his hips against Sherlock. He slid his knees between Sherlock's thighs, parting them slightly. One hand curled around the swell of Sherlock's arse to pull him harder against John.

A groan escaped Sherlock, the desperation soaking into him. He rolled his hips back against John, rocking into his thigh. Sherlock arched into the nails, want wrapping around him and driving him to rock against John again and give a pleading sound. He nipped at John as his hand raked down John's side.

John growled and leaned into Sherlock, arching up hard as he ground Sherlock down on his hips, groaning at the feel of him. He bit at Sherlock's lip, working his hips up against him in a rhythmic roll.

Sherlock gasped against John, a shudder running through him as he whimpered John's name in need. He panted against him, his desire obvious as he rocked against John. Sherlock was hard and damning the interference of John’s pants. His fingers curled in the fabric and tried to drag them down.

John lifted his hips, working with Sherlock to get them off, pulling him back down with both hands on Sherlock's face, kissing him with all his energy. He gasped as they brushed together, raw heat and want, thinking of nothing else but Sherlock.

A low keen was torn from Sherlock as he rocked against John, rubbing them together. He kissed John, whimpering into it with want and need. His hands were everywhere he could reach, continuously running and rubbing against John.

John stopped Sherlock for a moment, his chest heaving, looking up at him as he ran a thumb along Sherlock's lips.

"I want you," he breathed, gently rolling his hips up as he reached down and took Sherlock in hand, starting to work his fist over him as he held Sherlock's eye.

Sherlock gasped as John worked over him. He watched him. "Any way you want me, you can have me, John." He groaned eyes dropping closed for a moment before snapping open to look at John again. "P-please. John... God."

John arched up against Sherlock, working his fist over him, so focused on Sherlock that his pain faded to the background.

"Need… Need oil or..." He pushed up on his elbows, suddenly mouthing along Sherlock's collar bone.

Sherlock groaned, tipping his head back. "There's- in the bath. Saw it." He shuddered, rolling his hips. "Please. I'll... let me." He moved to get up, wanting it more than he thought possible.

John reluctantly let Sherlock go, dropping to his back and covering his face with his hands, breathing deep. He had no idea what he was doing, and he damn well didn't care. It wasn't as though they had not well crossed a line already.

Sherlock was only gone a moment before he was crawling back into the bed with the oil, kissing John as he did. He ran his hand over John's chest.

John pushed himself back, sitting up and then pulling Sherlock into his lap. He took the oil as he kissed him, pouring it out into his hand before reaching down with slick fingers and working his fist over Sherlock, biting at Sherlock's lips as he kissed him.

Sherlock groaned, rocking up into John's fist. He kissed back roughly. John's name on Sherlock’s lips as he rocked against John, begging without words for more

Sherlock was driving him forward as he reacted, and soon John was pushing him back and slicking himself. "Have you done this before?" He asked roughly, sliding a slick hand along the inside of Sherlock's thigh.

The sensations made Sherlock gasp. "John, God... Not since University." He gazed up at John. "Please. I want you." There was so much feeling wrapped up in those words that Sherlock couldn't properly articulate.

John leaned in and kissed Sherlock very slowly, taking his time as his fingers sought out the core of him. He began to circle with one slick finger, whispering softly, "been a long time for me… like this." He mouthed down the side of Sherlock's neck, rumbling warmly as he began to press in, slow and easy.

It was a bit surprising to hear, but Sherlock filed it away for later, too busy concentrating on John's finger and mouth. Sherlock groaned low as he wrapped an arm around John. He shivered under John, breathing out slowly. "So good."

John kissed Sherlock long and show, taking his time to prepare him, eventually managing to side a third finger into him, mouthing along Sherlock's bruised neck, nipping at his jaw, kissing him slow and possessive. He took his time, ten minutes becoming twenty, his own hips constantly rolling up against Sherlock as her mercilessly worked Sherlock open and drove them both mad.

Sherlock begged, rocking against John’s fingers, breathing ragged. "John, god, John, please. I need you." He kissed John again, biting at his lower lip and tugging on it. "I- please. I wouldn't have been Moran’s, I... John, please."

John grabbed the oil and slicked himself again, all while kissing Sherlock. He eased Sherlock back a moment later. "Here," he near growled as he budged Sherlock up, holding himself in position.

"Never his," John assured, leaning up to kiss Sherlock. He took his time with the kiss, waiting for Sherlock to sink down at his own pace.

Sherlock groaned into the kiss as he started to press down, soaking up the comfort of John's reassurance. He held close to John, eyes closing. He took his time, sliding down until he had John fully inside him. Soft, clipped sounds of pleasure left Sherlock’s lips as he rolled his hips. "Oh fuck…”

John had his head dropped back, groaning and struggling to keep still. When Sherlock was fully seated he wrapped around him, gripping him tight, rocking very shallow and hardly moving within him.

"God, okay, okay, _please_. Move." Sherlock's voice was strained, desire laced through it as he struggled to keep calm. "God, John, please." He rolled his hips with a groan.

John leaned back so that he could watch Sherlock, letting him go and rolling his hips up, pushing deeper into him. He groaned as he reached between them, taking Sherlock in hand again. "Sherlock, Christ," he murmured, dropping his head back.

Sherlock groaned and braced himself against John as he started working his hips. He watched John as he started working up and down him at a steady pace, moans escaping him. "Fuck, John..." Finally, _finally_... despite the sorrow still hanging over their heads, and the stress that was bound to wrap up around them from the things they'd done, this moment was perfect. It was a moment Sherlock had been waiting on and wanting. He leaned forward and kissed John as he moved.

John met Sherlock movement for movement, swearing under his breath. He was so far removed from Mary, his body completely different, voice sinful even as it was still rough and gravelly from the assault.  
John held Sherlock's hips, matching his hand to Sherlock's movements, his mind blissfully shut down.

Sherlock moved back up, starting to ride John in earnest. His head tipped back as he moaned, eyes shut. The sensations were incredible and he shifted, adjusting until John was moving just right inside him. He gasped loudly when he found the perfect angle and found his rhythm again. Sherlock swore again, breathing growing even more ragged.

John shifted under him, moving for more leverage. "Sherlock," he bit out, nearly overwhelmed, "Fuck, Sherlock, Fuck. I'm… Jesus, I'm..." He shook his head, bucking up against Sherlock as he gave up speech in favour of kissing.

Sherlock gasped into the kiss. He started to tremble in John's arms as he kissed him roughly. It only took a few more thrusts before Sherlock was coming apart in John's arms, spilling between them with sharp gasps and a long, shuddering moan.

John came hard after him, shouting into Sherlock's mouth as Sherlock's body gripped him hard, the groan from Sherlock more than he could bear.

He wrapped his arms tight sound Sherlock and pulled him against his chest, rocking up against him through the waves of it until finally he could breathe again, pulling Sherlock down on top of him as he panted for breath.

Sherlock panted against John's neck, body trembling now and again. As the minutes ticked by his breathing slowed and his heart rate returned to normal. He pressed small kisses to John's neck and breathed out a sigh of contentment

"We… we should… shower," John managed as they both seemed to come back down. He nuzzled against Sherlock before carefully pushing Sherlock back so that they could stand up.

Sherlock eased off of John and stood on wobbly legs. He let out a soft noise before holding his hand out to John. "That was-" His mouth turned up at the corner. "Don't quite have the words. Thank you."

John took Sherlock's hand and stood up on unsteady legs. "It's mutual," he answered, moving with Sherlock to the shower. He did not attempt to stay upright, turning on the taps and sitting down.

Sherlock settled on the bench beside John. His movements were tender as he began to wash John with a soft cloth. The shower gel left an unobtrusive scent on John’s skin as Sherlock scrubbed away the grime. 

John leaned against the wall, eyes closed, taken aback at Sherlock's gentleness. He allowed Sherlock to care for him, keeping quiet and still, unable to do much else.

Sherlock was silent as he bathed John, doing it for himself as much as he was for John. He needed to catalogue the injuries and reassure himself John was okay. He washed John completely before paying attention to himself.

When Sherlock seemed to be done cleaning himself, John finally spoke. "I think I need to sleep, Sherlock." His tone was flat and exhausted, and John was back up in his mind, struggling with himself again.

As he leaned in to kiss John’s temple Sherlock nodded. "I'll be along as soon as I've washed up. He squeezed John's arm, voice quiet. "I'm here, whatever you need."

John's night was fitful. He slept poorly, waking often and in a sweat, eventually pulling away from Sherlock. Around four in the morning, he pulled himself out of bed, pacing in agitation. He could not settle, his hands too unsteady and his mind far too active. 

Sherlock woke when John's footfalls grew louder. He pulled himself up to the side of the bed and scrubbed his hand through his curls. His voice croaked roughly when he spoke. "What's wrong, John?"

John glanced at him before he took a seat, dropping into a chair and lacing his fingers between his knees. A breath in, and a breath out, he prepared himself for what he'd come to know of himself in his exhaustion. 

"Sherlock," his voice was so soft that it was nearly inaudible. He watched his thumbs, tracing his yellowing knuckles, "I can't do this.”

A moment of silence passed before Sherlock could voice his biggest fear. "Can't- can't do what, John? Can't live? I- please- please don't give up. Not now, not- not after everything." His voice cracked on the words and he went silent again, holding his throat against the pain.

Wildly glad for the distraction, John got up and went to the bathroom, walking back out with Sherlock's pills in hand. He stopped at the little counter and got him a cup of warm water, handing both over as he tried to get a grip on himself. 

He sat down again after Sherlock had taken his medicine, watching him before he had to pull his gaze away. How was he to go about doing this? 

His heart raced behind his ribs as he stared at his feet, typically wanting to look Sherlock head-on with difficult news and currently unable to do so. "I'm...I can't stay here," he cleared his throat as his voice threatened to crack, "I can't stay with you."

Of everything he’d expected John to say to him in that moment, Sherlock hadn’t expected that. He swallowed the pills. There was an odd sort of calm to the way his heart shattered in his chest. After a moment Sherlock took a deep breath and nodded.

“I understand.” He looked up to to John with a sad smile. “I think, maybe, I’ll travel, for a while… until Baker Street’s recovered.” He paused for a moment, voice softening. “It will always be open as your home, no matter which bedroom you choose.” He bit his lower lip and nodded once at that.

John did not move for several minutes. He was a bit taken aback at how easily Sherlock had accepted this, supposing he'd been braced for it all along, or perhaps feeling the same way. He cleared his throat again, still unable to look at him. 

"It's too much. I- I lost them and-" he shook his head, pressing his lips to a thin line. For a moment, all he could do was swallow around the swelling in his throat. Again he cleared it and tried to explain himself. "It's not you," he managed, finally looking up at Sherlock, "I… I have to get myself together." 

"I don't- I don't like it. I hate it. I want to throw myself at your feet and scream and beg you to stay with me-" Sherlock's voice cracked and he bit back a sob before taking a slow, deep breath. He took a moment before continuing. "But this- it won't be good, for either of us... Look at us," he whispered and shook his head. "I hate it... But I understand."

John looked over to his bag by the door, nodding to himself.

"Okay," he murmured, just before pushing himself to his feet and forcing himself to move. He walked to Sherlock, wrapped a hand around the back of his head and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead, turning a moment later and walking away before they could say anything else.

He grabbed his bag and closed the door behind him, eyes burning, taking off for the cars before he lost his nerve.

Sherlock watched the door shut. He let enough time slip by that he wouldn't catch John in the hall before he was launching himself out the door and across the hall. Quiet as he could, Sherlock crept into Mycroft's room and tucked himself into bed with him, finally giving way to the tears.

Mycroft was lit by the blue glow of his mobile, setting it aside and resting a hand on Sherlock's head. "He'll come back, Brother," he assured. 

The tones of Mycroft’s voice spoke to his relief that John was gone. Sherlock chose to ignore them, take them for what they were. He knew Mycroft well enough to know the types of things he’d have authorized. Cash, ticket to anywhere, a new identity if John wished.

“You don’t know where he’s going.”

“No, Sherlock… and I will not find out. This is a chapter that should have closed long ago… All will be well in the end." 

The tension in Sherlock’s body gave voice to the rage he felt at Mycroft’s words. He bit his knuckles against the onslaught of emotion, taking slow deep breaths. It took him long silent minutes before he was able to speak.

“You are correct, Mycroft. This chapter… This chapter is ended. It is long past time a new one began.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can follow Amphi at [Amphigoriously](http://amphigoriously.tumblr.com) and Symphony at [DemonicSymphony](http://demonicsymphony.tumblr.com) over on tumblr.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Healing takes time...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my thanks to the Antidiogenes lovlies. I could not have made it through the rest of the edits on this without them.
> 
> A special thanks to [Vilestrumpet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vilestrumpet) for her beta and Britpicking and to [beltainefaerie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie) for her beta. 
> 
> -Symphony

The first week after John left, Sherlock ventured out of Mycroft's room only when forced. He slept with Mycroft as he had when he was a small child plagued by night terrors. It reminded Mycroft of why their parents had got Sherlock Redbeard. Until Mycroft spent an entire evening, well into the early morning hours with his room shut tight, discussing matters of national security, Sherlock refused to sleep by himself. After the first night on his own, Sherlock seemed to gain traction. His bruises faded and he started venturing downstairs to play bridge with Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and Molly.

No one spoke about John unless Sherlock brought him up… Which was infrequent. Sherlock would often start to speak about him only to shut down, switching topics with a frown or a scowl. As the days ticked by, Sherlock began to open up again, allowing himself to talk about John in anecdotes and the like. 

Over the next several weeks, Sherlock's mind and body healed enough that one morning found him knocking on Mycroft's door. His body physically going through the motions before his brain caught up to itself.

Sherlock wandered in, fingers idly tracing the scar from his stint in Serbia, settling in comfortable chair next to the desk. When Mycroft did not speak, he allowed himself to say what was on his mind. "I think I'm going to travel until Baker Street is ready or until I'm ready to return home." He met Mycroft's eyes. "I- this is not home to him. It never will be. Not like it is to me. I cannot spend my life pining for him." 

He cleared his throat, voice softening. "I love him. I always will. But he wouldn't, and I'm sure, wherever he is, whatever he is doing, _doesn't_ , want me sitting around waiting on him. So I will not. I'm going to do things I want to do."

Mycroft nodded, reaching into a drawer and handing Sherlock his passport. "I fully agree. There is no point to this wasting. I have work for you if you'd like it, something nice in Panama. It is easy enough and you will have time to enjoy yourself. I also am happy to simply send you on holiday, if your mind won't rot. Baker Street has a few months of renovations still remaining. The foundation was damaged. All I ask, Brother, is that you stay in contact with me, even if only to note your location every seventy-two hours via GPS."

"It should annoy me that you already have a job lined up... You know my mind will rot if I “take a holiday”. How do people do that? Lie on the beach and stare at the ocean? Please.” Sherlock glanced over to Mycroft. 

“I will travel to Panama and check into this job. I'm already beginning to go mad here. There are only so many games of bridge I can successfully engineer for Mrs. Hudson to win before I completely lose what sanity I have left." Sherlock murmured as he fiddled with his passport, tossing it up in the air.

Mycroft kept his face neutral, though he was deeply relieved to see Sherlock behaving like himself again. He allowed himself a moment of thought on the situation. Sherlock and John’s separation had been necessary. Both of them needed to heal and all they’d been doing was feeding on one another. Mycroft shook himself from his thoughts as he looked Sherlock over... He could not deny how much better Sherlock looked already. While Mycroft made sure the card John had been given was kept loaded, his loyalties would always lie, first and foremost, with Sherlock.

"Very well. There is plenty of work to be done. Take it at the pace you choose, though do be somewhat swift? I will have a car ready in the next hour, and you will be on the case tonight. Go and ready yourself.” He paused for a moment, considering his words. “I am glad to see this progress, Sherlock." 

Sherlock tossed his passport up, scowling at Mycroft as he caught it again. "Could you rein in your glee at John's departure, Mycroft?"

Mycroft pressed his lips together in a thin line. "I am merely glad to see my brother coming back to himself. I take no joy in your loss of him, Sherlock." 

A soft sigh left Sherlock. "My apologies, Mycroft. I find myself- perhaps _overly sensitive_ , on the subject."

Mycroft waved his hand in dismissal. "Think nothing more of it, Sherlock. It is understandable." 

"And what of you?" Sherlock's voice was gentle. "We haven't talked about how you are, Mycroft." He paused, his words careful, tone softening further. "You loved _him_ , once."

Mycroft blinked in startled surprise, lacing his hands together. He swallowed before speaking. "Quite relieved," he answered, keeping his tone even. 

Sherlock studied him before pushing to his feet to envelope Mycroft in an awkward, but fierce hug. "You should have told me." He whispered. "I would have done something sooner. Anything, Mycroft. I would go to any lengths to protect you. You know that, don't you?" Sherlock's question held a hint of desperation.

Mycroft did not lean away, keeping close to Sherlock. "I do," he murmured. He breathed in and allowed Sherlock to carry on as he liked. "It would have put you in too much danger. I confess to not understanding how serious things had become until it was far too late." 

"He was far more of a problem than I'd anticipated. It wasn't until we were actually there- That's not how I expected it to go." Sherlock confessed. 

Mycroft hummed in response, his voice gone with the memory of his weeping brother standing by his felled tormentor. _Love_. Something twisted and dark that had felt right in the worst ways. 

He leaned back from Sherlock, clearing his throat. "Go on, prepare for your travels." It would do no good to dwell on the things Charles had put them all through.

Sherlock captured his lower lip between his teeth and nodded, disappearing without another word to pack. He took his time, making sure he had everything he needed. Fifteen minutes before he was set to leave, he leaned in Mycroft's door. "My..."

Mycroft looked up and swept his eyes over Sherlock. With a tight nod, he offered a shadow of a smile. "This is what you need to be doing right now, Sherlock. This. It will be much improved when you return to work, you'll see. It will all settle down for you." 

"Mycroft, when you get back. Go and see Harry. Tell him I said thanks for the lighter… by the way. Promise me." Sherlock held Mycroft's eye. "Go and see him."

Mycroft cleared his throat, taken aback by Sherlock's insight. With a startled blink, he nodded, resisting the urge to fidget. "I- yes, alright. I'll visit Harry. You have my word." 

He stood up, though he remained behind his desk. "Safe travel, Brother." 

Sherlock nodded. "I'll be in touch when I land." He lingered just a moment longer before tapping the door frame and moving down the hall. He said his goodbyes to the rest of the house before heading out to the car. Once there he put his head against the window and looked up at his childhood escape, wishing, not for the first time, that John could have found the same kind of solace he did there.

Sherlock spent the next seventy-two days at Mycroft’s beck and call, save for four, seventy-one hour, fifty-nine minute stretches he told Mycroft not to contact him during. He solved cases all across the world and spent some of the time lying on the beach, staring at the ocean, though he’d never admit it to Mycroft. 

He found the sound of the waves soothing in a way he’d not thought they would be. So on each of his four detours, he’d stopped in a different place. Hawaii, a tiny island in the south Pacific, a small beach in Thailand, and finally Dover.

Sherlock spent longer in Dover than anywhere else, checking in with Mycroft before he returned home to Baker Street. He stared out at the ocean, cigarette hanging from his mouth as he called Mycroft to let him know he was back in country for good.

Mycroft answered the call, seated in his favored chair in his home. "London has missed you," he said before Sherlock could speak. 

Sherlock blew smoke over his head with a small sigh. "Not quite home yet. In Dover. I'll be in London within the day, though. How is being home treating you?"

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, leaning forward. "I was informed you were home. Still in Dover? Yes, well, it will be good to have you back. Things have calmed and repairs are heavily underway, it nearly looks like London again." 

"Dover is not so far away from London. Perhaps the person merely meant I was 'home' to England?" Sherlock tossed his cigarette into an ashtray as he strolled back to his rental car. "I'm about to make the drive back."

Mycroft hummed at that, surprised to hear Sherlock had chosen to drive. "Shall I have Mrs. Hudson put the kettle on in a few hours? She has not stopped fussing over your flat since this morning. Baker Street is waiting for you." 

"Please do... tell her I'll ring her when I expect it to take another twenty minutes?" Sherlock asked as he started the car. "I need the adjustment period."

Mycroft shifted in his seat as he softened his voice. "Are you well?" 

Sherlock smiled, "I am very well, Mycroft. But the last time I was in Baker Street, Sebastian Moran very nearly succeed in killing me and John was still with me. I need the driving time to relax and settle. All is well. As much as I have denied it in the past, I am human, but I am coming home."

Mycroft cursed himself for being so flippant. Of course Baker Street would not be the good news he wanted it to be for Sherlock. "You are, of course, welcome to stay in my home. There is no pressure for you to return to 221B. I failed to consider all that you've said, I apologize."

"I refuse to let a dead man run me from my home, Mycroft. That aside. You won't make tea and have it waiting in the morning. Mrs. Hudson will." Sherlock's smirk was evident in his voice as he pulled onto the road, letting the car's sound system handle the phone call.

"Decidedly not," Mycroft sounded as though he'd just eaten a lemon. "Do call when you arrive."

Sherlock chuckled but his voice held an air of affection. "I'll talk to you soon, Mycroft."

The work had done Sherlock wonders. He took a moment to glance at himself in the rearview. He was fit again. His skin was not tanned, but no longer held the unhealthy pallor from months in hospital and then mostly seclusion after. Every injury he'd had was fully healed. Sherlock smiled and stepped on the gas a little harder, enjoying the sporty little number he'd rented.

There was the requisite amount of fussing from Mrs. Hudson when he returned. Molly and Greg came by together. Molly bearing a bottle of wine and Greg a new case. His mouth twitched up in the corner because it appeared, just like that, Sherlock Holmes was back in London. A murder and wine welcomed him home.

For four months, Sherlock worked, taking on personal and Yard cases. His name surged in the papers once more, though he eschewed interviews after the first two asked after John. He worked more closely with Greg and, in a surprising move, Donovan, than ever. She was more helpful and sharper than Sherlock had ever given her credit for being. 

If neither Sherlock, nor Donovan ever acknowledged that it was he who left a cashmere scarf on her desk (in her favourite colour no less) after a spectacular tackle of a serial rapist ruined her old one… Well, that was fine by them both.

Sherlock was pleased with life, though 221B seemed too large, too empty. He spent more time visiting Greg and Molly than he had before… Even Mycroft was not exempt from the occasional visit. As the weather turned colder, Sherlock found himself spending evenings in front of the fireplace, playing his violin. Although there was no one but a skull to play for anymore, Sherlock still found the act soothing. He glanced at the calendar and closed his eyes before sinking into the music again.

He couldn’t be sure how long he played like that… long enough his arms ached and he sank into his chair, staring at the fire. He ignored the snow outside the windows. The freak November storm had sent more than one meteorologist on a global warming tirade that Sherlock had deleted as soon as he’d heard it.

Lost in thought as he was, Sherlock paid no note to the world outside 221B Baker Street… including the front steps.

The hour was much later than he’d intended. With London blanketed in snow, and roads icy from a fresh rain, Heathrow had been held up for hours.

John stood in front of the glossy black door. Everything looked the same at first blush, but was so very different, a bit too new in places. His breath fogged above his head as he stared at the brass numbers. His gut was churning, nerves making him hesitate after he'd come all this way. 

He shook his head, pressing the buzzer for B and forcing himself to be still. He could hear the thundering footsteps on the stair and the door was flung open.

Sherlock was prepared to launch into his speech about how he would not line the pockets of the charity's CEO when he froze. He blinked rapidly and then cleared his throat stepping back and gesturing inside. "John, come in. It's freezing out."

John nodded with a tight, overly polite smile, moving like an automaton inside. Once inside the foyer, he shook himself, eyes darting over Sherlock's face as he spoke. 

"Yeah, bit later than I'd intended, so eh, sorry about that." 

"It's not a problem at all. Come, come. I'll put the kettle on." Sherlock smiled, a full, genuine smile as he shut the door behind John and headed up the stairs. When he reached the kitchen he flipped on the kettle and turned to observe John, taking in everything, reading every line, every place he'd been in the way the sun had kissed his skin and hair and the way he held himself.

With a shake of his head John stopped Sherlock as he opened his mouth. John held up a hand. “One day, maybe I’ll tell you.”

Sherlock shut his mouth and nodded in understanding.

John swept his eyes over the flat. "They did well by this. Remarkable," he observed with a nod, savouring all the details that had been set right. "I never expected them to rebuild like this." 

"I know. I was surprised when I returned home from abroad. It damaged the foundation. Almost everything was rebuilt - it's all new but- rebuilt to be home." Sherlock smiled as he said it, looking around. "They sourced old bricks."

John stared at the wall housing the fireplace, slowly taking in the details, trinkets both old and new. Sherlock was a collector, though he'd never admit it. Every case held a trophy, and at times he kept things simply because he found them beautiful in his own dark way. 

"Been busy," he remarked, looking back to Sherlock with an honest smile, "that's good."

"Mycroft thought it prudent I not let my brain rot... I might have lain on the beach in a few places though. Don't tell him. I'll never hear the end of that..." Sherlock switched the kettle off and poured the water over tea bags, one in an RAMC mug. He doctored his own tea and looked back up to John, his voice softening. "Are you staying in London then?" _Have you come home_?

John nodded, taking the tea and looking down at it for a moment as he took in a deep breath, slowly releasing it. He looked back up to Sherlock. 

"Hard to picture you laid about on a beach somewhere, basking in the sun," he said quietly, taking a slow sip of the tea and closing his eyes. 

Sherlock chuckled softly. "I made generous use of both umbrellas and skin protectant. Though I was assured they did not make 'spf a million mister, 'cause it's what you need'." His voice was a perfect imitation of the teenager's in Hawaii when he'd stopped off in the shop on his way to the beach

John cracked a toothy grin, though he said nothing. Another sip of his tea and he slowly sat down, favouring his leg and visibly tense. The table was still filled with microscopes, though far fewer samples. "That's good. I'm glad you took time out to do that." 

"I am too." Sherlock replied as he sat across from John. He watched him for a moment before pressing on. "Baker Street, it's- if you want..."

John tapped the edge of the chair, glad to see it there. "If it's not trouble," he whispered, looking down at his lap and then back to Sherlock, exhausted. "I'd appreciate it. I've got a room for the night, if there isn't a place."

"There's always room for you here John. Always. I meant what I said when you left France. Baker Street will always be open to you no matter what bedroom you choose. The bedroom upstairs even has its own bath now. No more having to yell at one another to hurry up, though, in light of- the bathroom down here now has a double sink. It's hard to tell. But inches were shaved here and there to make the bathroom bigger." Sherlock cleared his throat.

John visibly relaxed, sinking back against his chair and nodding. "I came a bit abruptly, I wasn't looking forward to a stay at a bedsit," he confessed, sipping again at his tea and wishing there was anything to make it stronger. "Don't have any scotch by chance?"

With a chuckle Sherlock moved to his feet and crossed to the bookcase. "Watch closely." He showed John how to open the hidden panel and pulled out the bottle of scotch. He settled back into his chair a moment later, tipping a healthy measure into glasses he'd snagged. When they both had their glasses, Sherlock settled back in his seat and raised his.

"Welcome home, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is... we've reached the end of _De Ses Cendres_. Now, before you slaughter us, there is an epilogue to the series. It will be up, likely within a week. It is fully written, but I have not even attempted to edit it yet.
> 
> Thank you for all your support.
> 
> -Symphony

**Author's Note:**

> The character who dies _is not_ Sherlock or John. If you need more, please, feel free to contact us on tumblr or drop a comment here to get our attention!


End file.
